#and ill go to the park by me and walk up to those massive rocks and ill sit there with my mandarins

[bushdivingbushranger]

the opening chords of wading in waist-high water by fleet foxes sound like unwrapping the sun like a mandarin

[redisriding]

The Right Swipe - Chapter Eight

A Court of Thorns and Roses Modern AU Fanfic

All character’s belong to the wonderful Sarah J Maas.

Tags: @superspiritfestival @duskandstarlight @perseusannabeth @courtofjurdan @omg-aelin @keshavomit​ @rainbowcheetah512 @queenestarcheron @mis-lil-red @queen-of-glass​

Cassian sat in his truck, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music playing on the radio. It was some classic rock channel that his truck had picked up on the drive out of Velaris to the hiking trail where he had agreed to meet Nesta for their second date.  

He had been waiting for almost an hour. Not that Nesta was late, but because Cassian had arrived excessively early. 

He had woken before his alarm that morning and was too restless to try and go back to sleep, so he had got up and padded around Azriel’s plush apartment making himself breakfast. 

But even the elaborate spread he concocted disappeared sooner than he would have liked. He sat at Azriel’s kitchen table trembling with energy that he didn’t know what to do with. 

After cleaning up, he decided to make himself useful. Locating Azriel’s tool box, which was some search, he set about hanging the paintings that Rhys had ordered to brighten up the grey minimalist box that Azriel lived in. 

He had only drilled the first hole in the wall when Azriel emerged from his room, bleary-eyed and grumpy. “Cass, what are you doing?”

“Hanging the art Rhys bought.”

“I can see that, but do you need to do it before 8am on a Saturday?! The neighbours are going to complain.” 

“Right, yeah. Sorry.”

“Why are you even up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, go watch TV or something.” 

“Do you want to—.”

But Azriel had already retreated back into his room, presumably to hide under his duvet for another few hours. 

Cassian closed the toolbox with a sigh. 

Lying down on the floor he began scissoring his arms and legs, making dust angels, while trying to decide how best to kill his morning. 

He wasn’t nervous about his second date with Nesta, for everything that could have gone wrong already had. Today’s date was a lucky second chance he didn’t think he was going to get, so he was determined that today Nesta was going to get to know the real him, and if she didn’t like it, well he didn’t lose anything he hadn’t already anyway. 

Climbing off the floor, he headed for the bathroom.

He didn’t think he had ever showered before a hike, it was the kind of thing you did after you got all sweaty, but given this hike was really a date, turning up smelling ripe wouldn’t do him any favours.

He did however take the opportunity, while he stood under the warm cascade of water, to stroke himself to completion…twice. Nesta’s presence already did things to him, he didn’t need to add unreasonable levels of horniness to the mix. 

After towelling off, he spent longer than necessary arranging his hair into a loose man bun, a style that Emerie always told him was sexy. He choose to assume she was an authority for all women and that Nesta would approve. 

Grabbing his phone off the vanity, he sent her quick message.

Looking forward to seeing you today :) 

Nesta’s rely came a few minutes later. 

Hope you can keep up ;)

Cassian’s chest clenched, that stupid grin he’d recently started sporting spread across his face.

Don’t worry about me sweetheart ;) 

Adjusting his towel, and himself, Cassian padded from the bathroom back into the room he was staying in at Az’s. 

He pulled a pair of trousers from the drawer he had hastily stuck the few clothes he brought with him into when he arrived. He then spent longer than he was prepared to admit debating which of his three flannel shirts he should wear. Cassian was just grateful he didn’t have to borrow anything ill-fitting of Az’s this time. 

After lacing up his boots with shaking hands, he decided that he couldn’t sit around in Azriel’s apartment any longer, he was going stir crazy, which is how he now found himself at their date spot, early. 

A few hikers who had passed in the hour he sat there had thrown him dirty looks. Men who sitting alone in trucks in the forrest tended not to be up to any good. To be fair to them, about half an hour in, Cassian did debate unzipping his trousers to rub a quick one out just to ensure that any lingering horniness was drained. In the end he decided against exposing himself, given, to do so would be to commit a criminal offence. 

It was then that he had started tapping his steering wheel and singing along to the classic anthems. 

The radio had just cut to a commercial break when a little red spots car appeared in his mirror. He laughed as it came to a stop behind his truck. 

Of course that was what she would drive. 

————

Nesta parked her car behind a massive truck. There was absolutely no reason for it to be the size that it was. She was sure that it was owned by some Velaris douche who thought anything outside the city limits could only be enhanced by the smell of exhaust fumes and the sound of an engine revving. She was nervous parking her car behind it, for fear the driver would simply reverse over her car, but it was the only space available in the small lot at the foot of the hiking trail. 

Switching off the engine she pulled her phone just her bag and sent Cassian a message. 

Hey! I’ve just arrived :) 

She hadn’t seen him while she was searching for a parking space, so maybe he was still yet to arrive. He didn’t really know Velaris particularly well after all. 

She shucked off the tennis shoes she had been wearing to drive and pulled her hiking boots from the back seat. She had her head down, lacing them up, when a knock on her window startled her. 

Jumping, Nesta looked up see a smirking Cassian crouched down looking in the window at her. 

Her stomach lurched, brain short circuiting. 

Gods. 

This was not the man she had met 10 days ago for dinner at the House of Wind. 

He was spectacular. 

Gone was the nervousness, dressed in clothes that didn’t fit him, with hair that was gelled like a helmet to his head. 

Instead, today, Cassian looked at ease. He was wearing a dark green flannel and his hair was tied in a messy bun. Loose tendrils framed his face. She wanted to touch them. She bet his hair was soft. Probably nicer than her own. 

If she could just run her hands through…

Nesta realised that she was gaping at him. 

Quickly righting herself, she swung open the car door. “Hey!,” she said.

“Hey yourself.” He kept that easy knowing smile, like there was something she was missing.

“You been here long?”

“Nope just got here.”

“Cool, let me just get these boots on and we can hit the trail.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

A little thrill went through Nesta at the casual way he called her that. 

She ducked her head to hide her blush, focusing instead on her laces. She didn’t look at Cassian but she could feel his eyes on her, watching her.

Her hands shook. 

She felt vulnerable, exposed, sitting in her low sports car, his presence looming. 

He was so much taller than Nesta remembered, broader too. She was eye level with his powerful thighs wrapped in black work trousers. 

There was something predatory about the way he stood. Dangerous. Not to her. Just that he was a powerful man, taking up space in a way he hadn’t the first time they met. 

Nesta’s blood heated. 

Finished tying her lace, she grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat and made to stand up. Cassian was beside her in an instant, arm outstretched like a gentleman to help her out of her car. 

With anyone else she would have not so politely told them where to go, but with Cassian, she was happy to accept any excuse to touch him. 

“Ready?” She asked, when she found herself parallel with his chest. 

“Yep, you know the way?” 

“Yeah I come up here all the time.” 

“It seems nice,” Cassian said. 

Nesta snorted a laugh, “This is the car park.” 

“Yeah,” pink tinged Cassian’s cheeks. Something inside Nesta twisted, she didn’t know how it could go from intimidating in one moment, to adorable in the next. “I just meant the forrest…it seems like a nice spot to go hiking.”

“If you’re impressed by this, the view at the top is going to blow you away,” she said, setting off down the trail. 

Cassian chuckled, he was behind her now, following her up the narrow path cut into the undergrowth. It would widen soon and they would be able to walk beside each other, but for now Nesta swayed her hips a little more than she normally would. “And if I’m not blow away?” 

“Oh you will be.”

“Willing to bet?” 

“Sure.”

Cassian paused for a moment, but when he spoke again, Nesta could hear the daring in his voice. “If you make me walk all the way to the top of this mountain and I’m not blown away by the view I want a kiss.”

“A kiss?” That liquid heat slicked through her again. Where was this bold Cassian the last time they went out? Trapped in that terrible hair perhaps?

“A kiss.”

“And if you make to the top and are blown away by the view?”

“Well then I’ll give you a kiss.” 

She snorted, “So either way, we get to the top of this mountain and we’re kissing?”

“Sounds like good odds to me.”

“Sounds like rigged odds!” 

“The first rule of gambling, sweetheart, the bookie always wins.”

She snorted a laugh.

“So what do you say, Nes, do you accept those odds?”

“Ask me again when we reach the half way point.” 

Silence fell between them then. Heated. Until they rounded a corner and the path widened. Cassian fell into step beside her.

“Do you hike much in Illyria?” She asked him. 

“No. I wish I could do it more, it’s so beautiful up there, but it’s…messy.” 

“Messy?”

“Yeah,” Cassian shrugged, “There used to be great hiking all over Illyria, but now, the land has all been carved up and sold to logging companies and private developers. The paths all cut through private property so you’re trespassing if you want to hike a trail.” 

“Ah, messy.”

“The old-timers really hate it.”

“I can imagine.”

“All of this wild land they had the free run of in their youth, now it’s all gone. Well, it’s still there but no one can use it.” Cassian ran a frustrated had through his hair. The movement showing off the size of his bicep. Nesta was sure it was bigger than her thigh. “There is this old guy in the town nearest me, real grumpy, his name is Beron. He always said that no one could push him off his ancestral lands, ya know?”

Nesta nodded. This was a story she knew all to well. 

“So one day, he goes hiking on this trail that cuts through land owned by some development company, they want to log the forest and then extract minerals from the soil or some shit,” Cassian rolled his eyes dramatically, “Anyway, a week later, old Beron get’s a cease and desist letter in the mail from the development company. Apparently they have cameras all over their land and were able to identify him. It’s fucked up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“No?”

“No. Stuff like this is happens all the time.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, Velaris and Hewn City are growing exponentially, and developers are swooping in to try and make a fast buck.”

“Illyria is not growing, it’s the opposite. Nobody under 40 lives there.”

“You live there.”

“Yeah well I’m special,” Cassian said with a wink. 

Nesta gave him a playful shove with her shoulder, it did nothing to move the mountain of a man walking beside her. His shove back however…

It was enough to push Nesta off balance. Her foot caught on a rock. Her ankle twisted. 

And then she was falling. 

Her arms propelling in an attempt to grab hold of something.

To keep her off the ground. 

Just as she toppled backwards a thick arm wrapped around her waist catching her. Pulling her tight against him. 

“Shit sorry Nes, I didn’t mean…” his voice trailed off as is he realised the position they were in.

How close he stood to her. 

One big arm wrapped around her tiny waist, pulling her body tight against his. Her hands clutching onto his thick arms, a reflex from when he grabbed her, but now she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to let go. 

She liked the feel of him against her. 

A zing went through Nesta as she realised her breasts were pressed up against his solid chest. 

Her breathing hitched. 

He noticed. 

The laughter in his hazel eyes dying, only to be replaced with something more fierce, determined. 

Their faces were so close together it wouldn’t take much for her to close the gap, to press her mouth against his full lips. 

Her gaze flicked down in time to catch his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. 

His grip tightened on her. 

The blood pounded through Nesta anchoring her to the moment. She was surrounded by Cassian, his strong body cocooning her. All she could see was him. All she could feel as he held her against him. She could hear her pulse beating in her ears, the shallowness of her breathing, the deep breath that Cassian took to steady himself before he learnt down, closing the distance between him. 

Their lips met, tentative at first but soon Nesta found herself deepening the kiss. Her hands gripping at Cassian’s thick arms as she melted against his body. 

She was on fire. 

Never had she felt a kiss like this. 

This was it. 

Whatever it was.

She had found it. 

————

Elain’s saw her hands trembling as she pushed the elevator button. The doors slid closed and she found herself staring at a mirror image of herself. She was dressed in a soft pink coat, with a matching pink scarf. Her makeup was simple but emphasised her eyes. Her hair was curled softly. 

She had just finished fluffing her hair when the doors slid open. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the hallway, and froze. 

There were two doors in the hallway, Azriel hadn’t told her which one was his. He had just said the penthouse. 

Pulling her phone from her pocket she sent a message to Azriel. They didn’t text very often, preferring to talk on the phone. She just hoped that now he would reply quickly. 

Hi Azriel, I’m outside but I don’t know which door is yours.

Standing in the hallway waiting for him to reply, Elain was suddenly overcome with a bout of nerves. She had been so excited to finally meet Azriel she hadn’t be worried, it felt like she had been going to meet an old friend, but it was in that moment she realised that she didn’t know this man. Had never met him. He could in fact be anyone. 

And she was meeting him in his home. 

This wasn’t safe. 

She needed to get out of here. 

Elain turned back to the elevator and pressed the call button just as the one of the hallway doors behind her opened. 

“Elain?”

Hesitantly, Elain turned around to look at Azriel. 

Oh. My. Gods. 

His face was exactly how it appeared when they video called.

No. 

It was even more beautiful in person. 

His dark features, his floppy hair, his hazel eyes that were both shy and kind. 

But the rest of him…

He was a hockey player. She knew that. What she hadn’t fully considered was what that meant. 

He practically filled the door way. Long lean muscle. 

He was wearing a grey jumper and dark grey slacks, so at odds with her pink. 

“Hi,” she whispered, her voice failing her. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yes…I just…”

“You just?”

“Er…I just realised that maybe this was a bad idea.”

She didn’t miss the hurt that flickered across his face. He moved then, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was only this movement that drew her attention to them; the scars that marred his hands. 

A hockey injury?

“Was I not what you expected?” He asked, distress settling in his features. 

“No, not at all.”

“I—.”

“No, I didn’t mean like that,” she exclaimed when she realised the way he must have taken that. “I just suddenly realised that it it maybe not a good idea to be in the apartment of some random man I don’t know.” 

A small smile played on his mouth, as if he was trying not to laugh at her, and Gods was it not the most beautiful thing that Elain had ever seen. She wondered then what he must sound like when he laughed. Some subconscious part of her decided it was her mission to find out. 

“I would say you know me pretty well.”

“I feel like I know you.”

Elain could have sworn his smile broadened slightly. “But I understand if you are uncomfortable.” 

“I think the whole reality of the situation just suddenly hit me.” 

“Yeah I get that.” He settled himself, leaning against the doorframe. He seemed in no rush to usher her inside, a fact that somehow set Elain more at ease. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course?”

“I’m terrified.”

Elain’s eyes went wide. “Why?”

“It’s been a long time since I was last on a date.”

“Sure.”

“No, it’s true! I haven’t been on a date in I don’t even want to know how long. I was with my last girlfriend for ten years and we broke up three years ago. I haven’t been on a date since.”

“But you’re so handsome.”

Azriel smiled now, a broad one, that lit up his whole face, and Elain felt something warm spread across her chest. “I’m flattered you think so.”

“It’s true.”

“Well that makes it all the more embarrassing then doesn’t it? Thirteen years since I last had a first date, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing pretty great so far.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“When was the last time you were on a first date?”

Elain hesitated. Her first date with Lucien had been just over two weeks ago. Her sisters had told her that dating multiple people was normal now, but after what Tamlin had said to her at dinner the other night…

She cut those thoughts off. If Azriel was the kind of guy that would speak to her the way Tamlin had spoken to her, the way Greyson used to speak to her, then it was better she found out now when she was able to turn around and flee in the elevator. 

“Two weeks ago.”

“Oh wow.”

“But I also got out of a long term relationship.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, two years ago. That was the first date I’d been on since.”

“How long were you with your last boyfriend?”

“Five years.”

“You’ve been on two first dates in the last seven years, and you still have more experience that me.” Azriel was fully grinning at her now. 

Elain felt her own smile match his. “It appears that way.” 

“I understand if you feel too uncomfortable,” he swallowed, “but if you want to come in maybe we could figure this whole first date thing out together?”

With a buoyancy in her heart, Elain stepped towards the door. 

————

Elain.

God’s Azriel had been struck stupid when he opened the door and she had just been standing there. Pretty in pink. 

He understood her nerves. Gods he felt them too. All the time. He had been so overjoyed when she agreed to have dinner at his place that he didn’t think about what that might mean for her. 

He was so grateful for her now, as she stepped across the threshold and into his apartment, that she had agreed to go through with it. 

He wouldn’t have just let her walk away. Not after seeing her standing there in the hallway. Something in his chest had begun singing to him then. He would have asked her to go to a restaurant instead. Not that he ever went to restaurants. His anxiety didn’t allow it. His life was spent in his apartment, at the rink, or holed up in a hotel room whenever his team played an away game. He absolutely hated being in public, but for Elain, maybe he could try. 

“This is for you,” Elain said, thrusting the potted plant that she had been hugging against herself, towards him, “It’s a snake plant. You said that you needed some plants to make your place more homely and this guy is pretty hard to kill. They don’t mind shady spots, or draughts, you can pretty much ignore them and they’ll reward you by purifying the air.” 

Azriel smiled down at her, “Thank you,” he whispered, “you didn’t have to bring me anything.”

Elain flushed pink, “I know…but I wanted to.”

“You’ll have to help me find a good spot for him.”

She smiled then, that shy smile of hers that stirred things within him, “Sure.”

Gods how had he let it go so long. 

Now he was finally around a woman and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He suddenly felt too hot and too cold at once. His gut twist, his heart pound, while other parts of him that he would never dare mention in the polite company of a lady began to throb. 

“Let me take your coat.”

“Oh thank you.” 

As Elain shrugged off her coat all of the electric heat in Azriel simmered to something closer to concern. He frowned. She was wearing a pink dress, with long sleeves and flowy skirt, it was beautiful on her but it did nothing to hide just how thin she was. 

He hadn’t noticed when they had called, but she was absolutely tiny. He was sure her waist was about as thick as his thigh. 

He hoped she was okay. 

Hanging her coat up, Azriel led her down the hallway and into the open plan living space. “So where do you think this guy should go?” He asked, gesturing to the plant.

Elain paused, looking around the big room. “Maybe he should go over there?” She said, pointing to table near the window that held only a lamp. 

Azriel padded across the room to position the plant on the table. “What do you think?” 

“Looks good,” Elain smiled that smile again, “something smells good too.”

“I hope you’re hungry. I’ve got loads of food.”

“Spend all day in front of the stove?”

A sheepish smile spread across Azriel’s face, “I was going to try and pass the food off as my own, but I can’t take the credit for work I didn’t do.”

Elain giggled, “You ordered in?”

“I ordered in.”

She rolled her eyes, “I thought you promised to make me dinner?”

“I think I promised to get you dinner, you definitely don’t want to eat anything I make.”

“You can’t cook?”

“I can barely make coffee.”

“I’ll teach you to cook, if you want?”

Making future plans, clearly Elain felt more comfortable in his presence after their initial wobble. Good. “Are you a good cook?”

“I’m an amazing cook.”

Azriel chuckled, “Then I might just take you up on that offer, at leasts I can sample some of your amazing cooking.”

Elain laughed again. Gods that sound was so refreshing, Azriel didn’t think it would ever get old. 

“So can I get you a glass of wine?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Azriel padded to the kitchen, to pour two glasses of wine. When he returned he found Elain staring dreamily at oneof the brightly coloured canvasses that Rhys had bought. He had hung them up this afternoon in preparation. He wanted his apartment to feel homey, not like he just moved in.

“Pretty cool, huh?” He asked, coming to a stand beside her. Gods she was dainty. Her head didn’t even come past his shoulder. 

Elain took the glass of wine from his outstretched hand. Her fingers brushed lightly against his, causing a bolt of electricity to shoot through Azriel.  “Where did you get it?” She asked. 

“My manager bought them, but I can find out for you?”

“No, it’s okay. I know the artist.”

“Oh yeah? Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

“Cheers! Yeah, it’s my sister.”

“The artist? No way?”

Elain nodded, “I just didn’t realise she was selling her work again.” 

“Apparently so?”

“Indeed.”

“So, ugh, do you want to eat?”

The mention of food seemed to snap Elain from her reverie. “Sure.”

Padding back to the kitchen Azriel plated up to large plates of food. One for Elain, and then double for him. 

Elain’s eye’s went big when he sat the plates down in front of her at the table. “You eat a lot of food.”

Azriel shrugged, settling himself across the table from her. “Food is fuel for me. I need it to keep up with training.” 

And it’s nothing to be ashamed of he almost added. To Azriel’s great surprise however, Elain polished off the plate of food her served her, and then joined him for seconds. She did tap out before thirds, but it was still an impressive showing. 

Azriel just hoped that it was a sign she was in some sort of recovery, and she wasn’t going to punish herself later. Or that she was sick in some other way. 

After they had finished dinner they settled themselves on the couch to watch a film. Azriel preened over how close Elain sat to him. Their legs touching. He took it as a sign that she liked him, or at the very least that she was comfortable with him. 

As the opening sequence began, Azriel stretched his arm across the back of the chair. Elain glanced up at him, smiling, she knew his game, but she didn’t stop him. She seemed content to allow his arm, slowly over the course of the film, drift down until it was slung around her shoulders. 

By the time the film ended, Elain was snuggled into his side, her head resting against his chest. 

Azriel hadn’t been paying close attention to the film, he tightened his arm around her as the credit began to roll. He didn’t want her to move. He was just so comfortable with her. Physically, as they lay together on the couch, but emotionally too. Elain was so easy to be around, his anxiety didn’t flare up. 

Azriel knew he was starting to develop feelings for her. 

It was just their first date and he was already a goner. 

He could only hope that she felt the same way. 

————

“You know when you said that I could hang with you tonight, so I could give Azriel his space?”

“Yeah?”

“I kinda figured you meant we could go to a sports bar or something.” 

Rhys looked up at his friend. They were standing in the Velaris Gallery of Art, one of Rhy’s clients had a big installation opening tonight. Rhys had only planned to stop by for a short time, to show his face and congratulate his client on her big night, but Rhys had alway enjoyed art. What harm, he’d thought, if he just glanced at the exhibition. An hour later however, and he had only seen half of it. 

Cassian had patiently trailed along behind him, making the occasional confused comment as to what exactly he was looking at. 

The only paint strokes Cassian cared about were the weather proofing he slapped on his wooden cabin every summer to protect it in the winter ahead. 

Gods bless him, he did not fit in here. He was just so big. He kept awkwardly twisting his body to avoid knocking over any of the exhibits. At any moment, Cassian risked bumping into something and the place falling like dominos. 

His friend was clearly uneasy, in his work boots and a green flannel, he had come straight from his hike to the event so that Azriel could have his apartment for a date of his own. Rhys couldn’t help but feel bad for him, “I’m sorry man, I just got carried away.”

“It’s okay.”

“Nah, give me a half an hour, I’ll talk to my client and we can get out of here.”

“Yeah?”

“Just let me find her,” Rhys said, craning his neck to see if he could find her amongst the crowd. “There’s food over there is you want to park up and I’ll come find you in a bit?”

Cassian glanced to the table with a frown. “Is it, like, real food?”

“Real food?”

“I thought it was part of the museum?”

Rhys laughed, “It’s not part of the exhibition, no.”

Cassian nodded seemingly relieved, “I’ll be at the food table then.”

“Half an hour, and we can go, I promise.”

Cassian just waved a hand dismissively, as he headed for the snacks, “Take as long as you need.” 

————

Feyre kept her head ducked as she made her way through the crowd. She was supposed to be working tonight, well she was working tonight but only in the sense that she was physically at work. She was supposed to be working the crowd, making introductions, chatting with artists, schmoozing potential buyers, but it was taking all her strength not to cry, and she wasn’t even succeeding at that. 

It had been 48 hours since Tamlin proposed. 

48 hours since he had got down on one knee in the middle of the street and asked her to be his wife. 

48 hours since the tears had started spilling, not with the joy that Tamlin had first thought, but with fear. 

48 hours since he started screaming at her in the street. How dare she reject him? She was nothing without him. Everything she had in her life was because of him.

48 hours since he left her sobbing in the street.

It had been 48 hours since she had last talked to the love of her life and it hurt. 

Gods she needed a drink. 

Sniffling she made her way to the drinks table, and took a large gulp from the first glass of wine she could lay her hand on.

“Eh…are you okay?”

Feyre looked over to the man who had spoke, a snotty laugh spluttered from her. The guy was huge, like a giant, dressed in outdoor work clothes. His shoulders curled protectively over the napkin he held in one hand and the cheese laden cracker in the other. As if anyone would even attempt to steel it from him anyway. 

She wondered which artist had dragged him along to support them this evening.

He watched her with big hazel eyes. There was something about him that looked familiar. Comfortable. That was the only reason why the next words fell from her mouth. “I think I broke up with my boyfriend.”

“Aww shit,” the giant said, shaking his head like it was the worst thing he had ever heard. “That really sucks. Were you guys together long?”

“We were serious, he proposed,” Feyre’s voice caught on the last word and the sob racked her. 

The giant swore. “No girly don’t cry, it’ll be okay.” 

He somehow managed to ease himself around the table without knocking anything over, coming to rub Feyre on the back as she continued to so uncontrollably. 

She didn’t know this man who was comforting her, but she sound herself turning into his chest, her tears wetting his t-shirt as she cried against him. One hand continued to rub her back, the other, she felt rather than saw, popped the final cheese and cracker into his mouth, before he pressed the crumby napkin into her hand. “Here, have a tissue,” or at least that sounded like what he said with a mouthful of cheese. 

They stood like that for a few minutes until Feyre was able to get her breathing under control. She took a step back to look up at the man, dapping her eyes with the napkin he had given her. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. 

“Don’t worry about—,” the giant frowned, “You kinda look like some I know, you know?”

“Oh yeah?” Feyre wiped her nose, couldn’t be anyone good if her swollen tear stained face was anything to go by. 

“Do you have sisters?”

“Two?”

“One of them called Nesta by any chance?”

Feyre froze, her eyes going wide as she looked up at the giant, “How do you know Nes—.”

A hand came out to clap the giant on the shoulder, “Hey man, you ready to go?” 

Shit. 

Well wasn’t this the last person she wanted to see right now.

The giant’s friend took one look at her and purred. “Feyre, darling.”

[doodle-zombie]

Lamia Bonding #17

*Takes place immediately following the massive RP I did with @theriverpersonshadow

“Hey,” Val drawled tiredly, stifling a yawn as she put the car into park and cut the engine. They’d finally arrived back home after a long drive filled with too much caffeine and not enough entertainment so she was making good on her promise to contact Nikolai. Of course, nobody was awake at this hour and she’d gotten an answering machine so she figured a voicemail was just as good. “We made it back home safe and sound. Piper is about to break free for the first time on the property. I’ll send you a video of the zoomies!”

She paused, dragging herself out of the van and unleashing the terrors upon her land. Sangria was watching from his basking rock, coiled up with a look of such heavy disgruntlement that she was immediately filled with fondness. Much of his ill-temper was feigned, she knew, and his inability to properly translate his thoughts to her. He’d had the good sense to keep Admiral contained in the house, for now, giving Piper time to stare at the surrounding trees with awe. Valerie was quick to finish her voicemail so she could take a video of the moment. Piper would never have seen such open spaces before or trees packed that tightly together.

At first, he looked between her and the surrounding forest before it seemed to click that he was allowed to explore this new world he found himself in. It was a good thing she’d already been recording because he started to zoom and keeping track of him was a challenge in itself. The grass was well maintained despite the fact she was out in the middle of nowhere and nobody ever came onto the property (her mailbox was a hike away and packages were picked up at the post office) so Piper didn’t disappear into the weeds as he zipped around.

“Wowie,” he was chanting. Over and over again, enchanted by this brand new world he’d never seen before. It must have been the smallest bit overwhelming because Piper didn’t seem to be able to form any other words.

“What’s that on the big rock, Piper?” Val called out, trying to muffle her laughter when Sangria gave her a betrayed look. Piper’s eye lights got huge in his sockets when he spotted the iridescence of Sangria’s scales, darting over and clamoring up the rock only to get distracted by the lingering warmth upon his scales. “Ah yes, Piper has discovered the coveted basking rock!”

Marmalade hummed from behind her, his tone amused when he spoke. “it was a good thing we moved it then.”

“Yep.” Valerie panned the camera around the clearing, showing off the cabinesque structure that served as her current home. Everything else was trees, trees, and more trees! “That spot gets sunlight all day and keeps the heat for a while afterward. The most coveted position on the property.”

“second most coveted,” Currant grumbled.

Oh yes, the first most coveted spot on the property was wrapped around her. Not that Valerie ever seemed to compute that they only went to the rock when she wasn’t available. It was right outside the window that faced her desk so she always had a good view of it and they always had a good view of her. When she was working at least one of them would be upon the rock.

“And here we have the pride of the property, the lord of my castle, Sangria!” Valerie had walked over to the rock, zooming in on the Mamba’s expression when faced with the delight of Piper’s company. Sangria appeared grumpy at first glance but she could see just how happy he was to have a young one to protect, the end of his tail curling around the bitty Pygmy. “The rock is his stage. Look at those scales!”

“THAT IS HARDLY MY GOOD SIDE,” he huffed, obligingly moving his tail so the shining scales caught the light and shone a rainbow of colors. “ENVY MY SCALES, PEASANTS.”

Adorably, Piper seemed to be making a similar attempt to show off how pretty his scales were and Val cooed at the pair of them. She had no illusions that Sangria was simply humoring her while the camera was on. As soon as she was alone he would likely have words for her so it was good to butter him up by loading on the praise in front of an audience of unknown numbers. Plus, Sangria was beautiful enough she loved showing him off.

“You are a very handsome Lamia,” she agreed.

“Piper handsome too?”

“Very much so, little jewel. Now, would you like to meet Admiral and Lapis?”

“Yeah!”

“VALERIE.”

She very pointedly ignored the tone used to say her name, scooping Piper up with one hand and marching towards the front door. Admiral made no secret of his location, peering out from one of the front windows and following their path with his one eye light. Lapis was nowhere in sight but that didn’t mean he wasn’t also watching.

“Ignore Sangria, he just doesn’t know how to ask for things yet. Work in progress.” Getting the door open took a bit of juggling but her full-sized Pygmy slipped out of the door as soon as it was open and began to climb her. Valerie angled her phone to record his progress until he was shoving his skull into her neck for a welcoming nuzzle and peering at Piper. “Where’s Lapis at?”

“Desk,” Admiral replied. “Hi, ‘m Admiral. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Piper! Hi!”

Carrying two Lamia and managing her phone wasn’t as difficult as it sounded since Piper and Admiral were more than capable of hanging onto her themselves to keep from falling. So Val easily navigated the entryway and scooped up the surprised Corny that had been napping in the sunlight on her desk. Lapis was basically a limp weight in her grasp, confident with the knowledge she wouldn’t let him fall.

“And this sleepy skull is Lapis.” He lazily waved at the camera, falling back asleep on her shoulders once she settled him there. His shenanigans must have thoroughly exhausted him while she was away if he was still tired. “The devious prankster that gave a Pygmy caffeine and incited chaos at Caring Coils.”

“you got a bone to pick with me?”

“Several,” she teased, setting him back into the warm spot he was napping in. Poor boy was too tired for more shenanigans. “I don’t know the last time Piper had protein so I’m going to feed him when it’s time for the boys to have their frozen-thawed food and if he wants anything between then and now I have some perfect snacks.”

As much as she would have loved to avoid Sangria for the rest of the day it would only incite his anger if he was put off. Admiral could tire Piper out showing him around the house while she dutifully went for a Mamba scolding. She sent the two Pygmy off with little pats to the skull, watching them slither quickly away. On her way back out to the yard she spotted Currant and Marmalade flopped atop the basking rock, having evicted Sangria from his position. The Mamba in question was carefully coiled on the edge of the clearing, staring at her without blinking as she trudged towards him.

She would have found it terrifying if she didn’t suspect that Sangria was worried about his position in the family more than anything.

“How many more?” he asked without preamble. Valerie couldn’t be sure but she felt like he was purposefully making himself smaller just so she felt more at ease. As if his large personality wasn’t something she enjoyed.

“However many fit,” was the answer she gave, sitting on the grass beside him. “But that’s not what you really want to ask, is it?”

Sangria was silent, expression soured, so she sighed.

“Every lamia that comes into my life is meant to be there,” she declared. “I feel it. So I can’t give you a number.”

“You can’t possibly have enough time for all of us.”

“Sure I can! You’re not a dog or a cat that relies on me entirely, Sangria.” Gentle fingers cupped the back of his head, pulling him against her shoulder. He avoided looking at her but that was why she brought his head to her shoulder, arms going around him. “Everyone has a place in this home. We wouldn’t be so safe if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t be able to tolerate going shopping if I didn’t have Currant with me, where he was safe and happy. I can’t imagine going a day without feeling Marmalade’s bond to me. All of you have a place in my heart and my heart has a lot of places for more of you. So don’t think I’ll ever forget you.”

He didn’t speak or cry, not that she expected that from him, but his gloved claws did sink into the thick material of her shirt. Like he wasn’t ready to give up some alone time yet.

That was fine, she didn’t have anywhere else to be.

[bangtiddies]

Sleeping Beauty

Pairing: Jungkook x unnamed female OC Genre: Heavy Angst, bittersweet fluff Words: 2,038 Warnings: major character death, (unnamed) terminal illness, bittersweet reminiscence

Summary: “One morning, I’ll open my eyes, and you’ll no longer be in this world.”

Note: Inspired by SEKAI NO OWARI’s 眠り姫 (Nemuri Hime/Sleeping Princess)

The room is cold and lonely. There’s no sound, just dead silence, the only sound heard from time to time being people walking in and out of the room. The room is too clean for Jungkook’s liking, too white, too bare, too unfamiliar. It’s devoid of personality, nothing there to express the beauty of the person occupying the room.

Perhaps other people also notice the lack of personality in the hospital room. Flowers of different colours and shapes decorate the room, get well soon cards scattered across most surfaces. But no matter how many flowers and cards come flooding in, the room still feels empty, sad, and lonely.

Jungkook dreaded this moment. The moment his whole world falls apart. The moment his life changes forever. The moment he knew was going to happen as soon as they found out about the illness, but he constantly wished would never happen.

The moment his best friend is admitted to hospital, pale and frail in the middle of the room on the pristine white hospital bed, on the verge of closing her eyes and never opening them again.

Jungkook vows to never leave her side while she’s the in hospital, but he doesn’t like being here. He doesn’t like that she’s there, lying almost lifeless in the bed. The hospital room doesn’t suit her.

The room is cold and lonely. A sick, frail body lies in the middle of the room, on the pristine white hospital bed.

Growing up, they spent a lot of time together.

They would go on adventures in the nearby parks, imagining up long journeys of fighting dragons and finding the hero’s sword. They were always the heroes together, holding hands through fields and forests as they dreamed up their fantasy worlds.

They had good days and bad days; days where they cried on each other’s shoulders and supported each other; days where they cheered in triumph after defeating the big boss in a video game; days where they lied beneath the stars, pointing out all the constellations they knew.

Jungkook can’t believe that he might have to spend those days alone, her hand no longer intertwined with his.

He must’ve spent a few days there, at the hospital, because one day, she turns to look at him and smiles at him. But her eyes are filled with worry.

“Jungkook,” she says, voice hoarse. She looks so frail, so sick, so different to how he knows her. Sometimes, he finds it hard to believe that it’s his best friend there in the pristine white hospital bed. Sometimes, he can’t recognise her. Because the sick, frail person isn’t the lively girl he always knew.

“Hmm?” he answers, not taking his eyes off her. He needs to spend every moment he can with her.

“Go home,” she whispers, “take a shower, have a good rest.”

Jungkook shakes his head, “no. I’m staying here with you. I’m not leaving you.”

“It’s okay,” she laughs, it sounds shaky, and Jungkook wishes to be able to hear the lively laugh she used to laugh, just one more time, “it’s not like I’m going anywhere else.”

He doesn’t know why he does it. But an hour later, when she falls asleep on the pristine white hospital bed, he decides to go home to take a shower. Just for her.

Jungkook was five years old when he first met her.

He had gone to the nearby park with his brother, determined to collect bugs together. Only they ended up not collecting bugs that day because they made new friends at the park.

She was one of them.

There were about six of them – including Jungkook and his brother – and they all decided to strengthen their friendship by playing a game of hide and seek. While his brother (who lost paper-scissors-rock) counted to fifty, Jungkook ran as far as his little legs could run. He found a tree in the little forestry area next to the park, one that would be easy to climb with his little legs, and hurriedly scrambled upon the first branch he could reach. As he climbed higher up the tree, he noticed another pair of legs dangling off a high branch of the tree.

“Oh!” he let out a surprised sound.

“Shhh!” she shushed, putting an index finger against her lips, narrowing her eyes at him. Jungkook nodded and places an index finger against his lips too. After a small moment of them staring, with Jungkook being a little intimidated, she offered him her hand. He hesitated a little, staring at her with curious doe eyes, before shyly grabbing her hand and letting her pull him up onto the same branch she was sitting on.

They didn’t let go of each other’s hands, still gripping them as they sat upon the tree.

His brother teased Jungkook all day after he found them, and although Jungkook blushed and denied any claims of, ‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G,’ he felt chuffed that he made a new friend.

Jungkook played hide and seek with her again the next day, and many more days after that.

It’s so odd, seeing his best friend in a wheelchair. But the bright smile is back on her face, her energy and excitement high, that Jungkook couldn’t say anything.

In a way, he’s just as excited as she was; the doctor had granted her one day out, so long as she’s in the wheelchair and to come home as soon as she felt tired. Her face brightened up at the news, a wide smile Jungkook hadn’t seen in such a long time, and she planned her whole day out to be with Jungkook.

Jungkook would be lying if he didn’t say he was chuffed that she chose to spend her whole free day out of the hospital with him.

She says she wants to go to the park again. The park where they met. And so, he drives her there, where she sings along to music and laughs in the passenger seat. If it weren’t for her frail body and her wristband, the moment would have been just like the times before she fell ill. It was obvious that they both were trying so hard to ignore all details of her illness and the looming reality that she would return to the hospital that evening.

They reach the park where they first met, a world that looked so big to them many years ago looking so small now. He pushes her around the park, pointing out places where they used to play, laughing at fond memories.

He knows, by the tears welling up in her eyes, that she’s trying not to cry. And if she starts to cry, Jungkook knows that he’s definitely going to cry with her.

But she sniffs a little instead, wiping her eyes with her sleeves before looking up to Jungkook with a smile.

“Can I request one more place?” she asks.

“Yeah sure,” Jungkook answers, smiling at her. I’ll take you anywhere if I can for you, he thinks.

“Can we go to our rock?”

“Our rock?”

“Yeah, our rock. At the beach,” her smile is bright, as if she hadn’t been almost-crying just a moment ago, “let’s watch the sunset together.”

Jungkook would’ve been sixteen years old when he fell properly in love with her.

He’d always had a minor crush on her; even his brother could tell. But it wasn’t until his sixteenth birthday, when she arrived looking beautiful and like an angel sent from heaven, that he knew that he was in love with her.

He never got to confess his feelings to her.

There was a day when he almost did, about a year after his birthday, when they were sitting on their rock at the beach in the summer and staring at the sunset while their family cleaned up the barbeque. They’ve spent many evenings here before, sitting on the massive, smooth rock together that they both claimed when they were kids.

Every time the sun was setting, she looked at it like it was the first time ever; marvelling at the beautiful pink and orange sky above them. This time was no different, as she gasped loudly and watched the sunset with stars in her eyes.

“Jungkook! Look at the view!” she exclaimed with a wide smile, standing on the rock and putting her arms out, breathing in the fresh salty air.

He looked up and stared at her side profile, while she was looking out to the sunset, and smiled at how beautiful she looked. He softly said her name and she turned to look at him, sitting back down and staring into his eyes. Waiting for him to say something.

He was so close to confessing. So close to saying the words that had bubbled up inside of him since his sixteenth birthday. So close to saying them out loud.

But his father had called him over to help them out with packing away the chilly bin. And so, he stored away his confession, determined to say it when the next opportunity came.

The next opportunity never came.

He should have let her know, at least.

He should have confessed.

They reached the beach just before sunset. Pink and orange fill the sky, looking like a beautiful painting above them. Jungkook takes the wheelchair out of the boot but she shakes her head, asking if she could sit on the rock. Their rock.

So, he carries her to their rock, and they sit there together, intertwining their hands. Watching the sun disappear into the ocean. He looks over at her, like he did all those years ago when he almost confessed his feelings for her.

He wants to. Right now, he really wants to let her know. He wants to tell her what he should’ve when he was seventeen, all those years ago when they were sitting in the same place they are now.

But she looks back at him with a smile, squeezing his hand lightly. And from the glistening tears in her eyes, from the love she sends him, he knows. He knows that she knows.

“Thank you, Jungkook.”

Jungkook! Look at the view!

“Thank you for loving me.”

They let Jungkook stay over at in her hospital room that night.

He knows why.

She knows why.

She’s ecstatic though, a smile on her face as she chatters animatedly to Jungkook until she falls asleep.

He watches her fall asleep on the pristine white hospital bed.

He watches her for a little while longer, taking in her beauty while she sleeps.

He tries to focus on her heartbeat as he lies on the fold out bed next to her.

He tries to fall asleep to the sound her breathing.

He tries not to cry himself to sleep that night.

It’s 5:23 a.m.

The room is filled with silent sobs and anticipation. A body lies in the middle of the room, on the pristine white hospital bed.

Jungkook feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. There’s no emotion in his body, the situation yet to process in his mind. He stares blankly at what used to be his lively best friend.

The rest is a blur. A man in a white coat – a doctor, Jungkook’s mind manage to process – walks in and talks to her parents. Jungkook doesn’t process what the doctor says, only continues to stare at the pristine white hospital bed. The doctor walks to the body on the bed, to her, and checks her pulse. The man sighs and with a remorse look, turns to the people in the room.

The next words from the doctor, Jungkook hears clearly.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

The doctor leaves after documenting the death, her death, and Jungkook has difficulty breathing. Once the doctor is out of the room, Jungkook bursts into tears.

I am sorry for your loss.

I am sorry for your loss.

Your loss.

Loss.

He’ll never forget the wail of her mother, as she grips her husband and grieves the death of her daughter.

The room is filled with wails and tears. A lifeless body lies in the middle of the room, on the pristine white hospital bed.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.  - John Keats

[shadowsof-thenight]

Fictober day 15: Nervous

Promptnumber: 30 “I’m with you, you know that.” Fandom: MCU Characters: Steve Rogers x Reader, Maria Hill makes an appearance Warnings: description of chronic illness Words: 2380 Summary: You have a secret and you’re not sure how or when to tell him

A/n: kinda a scenario that’s close to home, because when do you tell someone that your chronically ill...

Nervous

That first date had unexpectedly been wonderful. Having been set up, you didn’t know what to expect beforehand. Of course you knew who he was. There wasn’t a soul in the world that did not know Captain America. His celebrity had made you incredibly nervous. Why would someone like him, go out with someone like you? Wouldn’t he want someone more flashy? Adventurous? There were so many questions that swirled around in your head and there were no answers for them. They weren’t yours to answer.

Maria had promised you that it would be fine. Which would have eased some of your fears if you hadn’t known her as well as you did. She tended to say that about everything.

World falling apart? It would be fine.

Aliens attacking New York? It would be fine, the right people were on it.

Trusting her judgement might have gotten a tad harder, after you needed to be saved from a crumbling building during the attack on New York. That didn’t stop her firm belief that all would work itself out, it never faltered. And as a pessimist, having a friend with such rock solid faith was nice. She always knew just what to say to you, to make things seem less daunting.

Same went for this semi blind date. She had helped you pick an outfit and made sure your confidence was boosted by the time he came to pick you up. And having around for the initial contact was good too. She easily broke the tension with her pragmatic attitude.

“Steve, timely as always.” Those were her first words upon opening the door for him. You chuckled, knowing there was nothing sarcastic about them either. She valued punctuality. It had taken her some time to accept your ability to always cutting it short. Maria stepped aside, allowing Steve entry into the apartment. She then quickly introduced you, since you hadn’t actually met before. And then she swiftly waved you off.

“Have fun, you two” she said, pretending to be a mother waving off her kids. Including a handkerchief to catch the tears as she watched her only daughter go off. Tension was a thing of the past then. Laughing you both waved goodbye. Maria really was a good friend to have.

Steve led you to his car that was parked in front of the building. Chivalrous as he was, he held open the door for you. The first of many gallant acts he bestowed on you. It was nice, refreshing. Maria had joked that your old soul would mash well with his actual old age and somehow you agreed with her now. There was no awkwardness in accepting his courtly behaviour, he managed a healthy balance between that and modern standards.

Soon you found that his chivalry wasn’t the best part of him. He was funny. As the captain he was often viewed as strict, somewhat stoic and a true do-gooder. Steve however was a different story. He had his strong opinions, though there was little stoic behaviour present. He was even slightly mischievous.

The date flowed well, conversation came easily. There was lots of laughter and at the end of the night, you felt like you had truly gotten to know one another.

A second date was planned in rapid succession and it was rather similar. Conversations grew a little deeper as a connection quickly grew. He made you laugh so hard you cried and made you feel safe and comfortable. Not always such an easy feat.

Still it wasn’t until the third date that you finally dared bring up your health. Or more accurately, your health problems. You almost chickened out, wondering just how he would react. Last time he had mentioned his love for running and hiking, wondering if you liked it as well. You had been as honest as you could, without mentioning your issues just yet. You had told him that running had never been your thing, but you did love hiking. Quickly adding that you rarely had the opportunity to do so. Steve had been quick to promise he would take you hiking sometime.

You should have told him then and there, but it was hard. A difficult subject to breech, at least for you. It wasn’t something you spoke off often, since you were still busy coming to terms with it. However, you felt now that it was necessary to inform him. If it was something he would struggle with, it would be easier to walk away from this now, than it would be in a few weeks. He was far to charming and had been tugging at your heartstrings already. The longer this went on, the harder it would be to end.

Which was why, for that third date, you had invited him to your home. Show him your love for cooking and hoping that could win him over once he knew more about your disease.

It had been two years since you got diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, a chronic illness, and it hadn’t been easy. Initially you had felt liberated by the diagnosis. After years of feeling sick it had been nice to know what was wrong. It had given you something to work on, a way to make you feel better. You could still see the doctors face as he regarded your expression, trying to read your response. In all those years, not one of your previous doctors had even thought of this. It had been a shock. Especially since there was only one person that had this disease and upon his diagnosis, he looked rather close to death. As if he was already standing with one foot in the grave. Surely with the right medication he had gotten much better, but that image of his sunk in cheeks and hollow eyes was still the first thing that came to mind.

It had not been similar to your case at all. There had been no massive weight loss or ten bathroom breaks an hour. For you it had been mostly fatigue. Extreme fatigue, a bloated stomach, painful joints and infections all throughout your body. There was so much pain and to took so long before medication calmed it all down. Still the fatigue never left you, nor the painful joints.

It had made dating a daunting task, creating a period of several years in which you simply avoided it all together. That was why Maria had been setting you up, she wanted you too embrace life again. To fully live. Steve had not been the first guy she set you up with. It had been the first one to be successful though. He had been sweeping you off your feet from the moment you’d met.

And telling him now, was the scariest thing you had done in a long while.

You’d spend the day leading up to the dinner as a nervous wreck. You had woken up early, unable to find any rest or some piece of mind. This meant that by the time Steve came around, you had already been beyond tired. And the kind of tired that made you emotional, which was great, just marvellous.

Terrified of how he’d react, you knew you’d be crying before the first word would have left your mouth. That was a sure way to make things even harder and it would definitely be dramatic. What would Steve think if he saw you crying? He’d probably think of worse things. All you could do was hope that you’d keep the tears at bay long enough for the words to come out first. Explaining tears of stress was much easier to do after the message was shared.

Upon his arrival it didn’t take Steve long to notice your discomfort. Still you did not tell him immediately. For in your mind there had been a plan. Dinner, dessert and then talking. And in your exhausted state it felt incredibly important to stick to the schedule. But you couldn’t focus on the conversation and more then once Steve needed to repeat the words he had spoken. That wasn’t like you and he had figured that out already.

Finally, after the umpteenth time, he dropped his fork and moved around the table to squat beside you. Taking your hand in his, he caressed it gently, asking you to tell him whatever was bothering you. Pressing that whatever it was, he wanted to help you.

The kindness of his gesture was enough to spill the tears of exhaustion and you laughed an apology as you wiped them away. This was not really going your way, he hadn’t eaten enough of your pasta to have fallen in love with it yet. And your blubbering must have looked incredibly strange to the wonderful man next to you.

“I’m sorry, I’m just really tired” you began, still trying to wave off his concern, but Steve immediately figured there was more too it and asked you to open up to him.

“It’s not that big a deal, I just…” you promised, though your voice cracked with emotion, making it hard to believe. Even you could see that.

“Just what?” His voice was soft as he spoke and his fingers were still caressing your hand.

“There was something I wanted to tell you tonight and I’ve just been so nervous” you finally offered.

“Why?” He seemed surprised, confused and you couldn’t blame him. No subject had been taboo yet. The two of you had been able to talk about anything. Almost anything.

“It’s stupid really” you tried to laugh it off again, a nervous tick you never had been able to shake. As soon as things got serious or in any way emotional, you cracked a joke or laughed about it.

“Then tell me”

“I’m sick.” Well that sounded far more dramatic than you intended. “I have a chronic illness and it just has not been the right time to tell, but it also felt like you needed to know” your words came out rushed and you barely looked at him as you spewed them out.

“Okay” he said, seemingly letting it sink in, “Care to tell me what it is?”

“Crohn’s” you sighed. There was no way to romanticise an auto immune disease that manifested itself in your intestines.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about it,” he offered honestly, having the good sense to mimic your serious expression.

“That’s okay,” you smiled, figuring out the best way to explain a disease like this. “It’s an autoimmune disease. Causing my body to basically fight itself”

“Oh wow” it appeared to you that he didn’t know what to say and though technically it could mean anything, it worried you more than you liked to admit.

“Yeah,” you sighed again, “it’s- it’s not stable and in return I am always tired. Which is why I’ve been so aloof when it comes to your hiking plans.”

“That’s okay,” He was quick to say, obviously trying to ease your nerves, “You don’t owe me an explanation for that.”

“But I feel like I do,” you pressed, looking him in the eye as you tried to make him understand what this meant, for you and perhaps for him, “Because you’re an active guy and right now, I can’t be a partner in that, perhaps I never will be again. You need to understand that.”

“I..”he swallowed, “I understand.”

“So, if that is a dealbreaker, just…no hard feelings,” you offered, trying to put on a brave face and smiling his way. Though your eye contact was lacking again. There was a small silence that followed in which you looked down at your still entwined hands. He was probably thinking of a nice way to turn you down. A way to walk away from here without losing face. You’d understand. You were still coming to terms with being sick yourself, you couldn’t expect others to get there easily. And unlike you, he was able to walk away from this. He deserved the opportunity to do so.

“You thought that could be a dealbreaker?” He finally whispered and you looked up at him. He was smiling kindly at you.

“ You never know. Friends have walked away for less,” You shrugged simply, not willing to get into that just now.

“ I’m sorry to hear that” he said, standing up and pulling you with him, “But I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

He pulled you into his arms, embracing you tightly as if to show you the truth to his words. You knew he would need time to really let the information sink in. And there would be more conversations. Where you would have to explain all the consequences this disease had on your life and by emend on his, if he really did stay. But for now, you had been honest and he had been a real gentleman about it. That was enough for the time being. He didn’t run.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were already worrying about other conversation you’d have to have with him still. How having children might be harder, though it might not be. How an inflammation of the disease could render you practically useless. How there would be a lifetime of medication and surgery. This was a life sentence and that was hard to explain to someone that didn’t have to deal with it.

You knew those conversations needed to be had, but you didn’t need to overwhelm him with everything all at once. There would be time for that later. If the two of you would share a future, those conversation would come. And perhaps, by then you’d have a better grasp on it all yourself.

“Y/n,” Steve whispered as he gently swayed you to music only he seemed to hear.

“Yeah?” You wondered, afraid to move, infer of breaking this wonderful moment.

“I’m with you, you know that, right?”

You pulled back slightly, looking at his face. He seemed so serious, sincere. He really wanted to let you know he wasn’t walking and your heart stuttered as a smile formed on your face. Reaching up you gently placed your lips on his, answering his kindness with the only thing that seemed to convey the emotions you felt.

***

Fictober19 Masterlist

[lou-bonfightme]

Catnapped 2: This Time, It’s Purrsonal || Part Six: If You Do a Bad Thing for a Good Reason, Is it Still Bad? || [Merou]

In which Merida and Toulouse infiltrate the Order Headquarters...[takes place: February 4, 2020]

@heart-of-dunbroch

[tw -- blood, gore, violence] 

MERIDA:  They arrived in London early in the morning, shifting back into their human forms in a railway park, dressing quickly in the same clothes they wore the day previous. It was icy, frost on the tracks and crunched on the ground under Merida’s boots. It bit at her fingers, and for the first half hour, Merida found this cold odd and her body’s reaction to it odd, so used to the fur and thick skin of the wolf’s body. This human vulnerability followed Merida as they started walking deeper into the city, when they arrived at the first tube station, when the tube took them underground and the forest was truly far away now, feelin’ like a dream of the wolf’s that ached in Merida, still. It didn’t like the jostle of the cars. The people. The smells-- so many smells, the city like a massive garbage heap to the wolf and to Merida too. 

But then, she’d always hated London. Comin’ here those few times a year always put a bad taste in her mouth. It wasn’t just how crowded and dirty everything was, ‘course. It had been the tight braids in Merida’s hair that gave her a bloody headache before she ever arrived in the headquarters. And the corsets she’d have to wear and the damn hoop skirt and the make-up smeared on her face like she was a circus clown. London meant all those things to Merida. It meant plastic, metal, chemical-- Merida dipped into a vat of it. 

This time would be quite different in multiple ways, rather obvious to mention. If she left with red on her lip this time, it’d not be from her mother’s lipstick. 

One of those differences was that Merida couldn’t get into the Order the same way as well. Usually, they ended up at one of the homes of the Order members who lived in London, where they’d wash, change, and then enter through a secret passageway to the underground. 

This time though, Merida kept an eye on the stops on the tube, and then grabbed Lou’s wrist when she saw the one marked in her Da’s journal.

“Here,” she instructed. They hopped off the tube and Merida looked around. Still early in the morning, there weren’t many people up still. Mostly drunks from last night and that would make this all much easier since it meant no questions. When she was certain no one was looking, she hopped down onto the tracks and she and Lou slipped into the gray shadows, like they were rats.

“Stay close!” 

She broke into a quick jog, nearly a run. Merida had been up for hours at this point, but it didn’t feel like it. Her heart was keeping pace. The beast in her was alert, letting Merida use her eyes to cut through the dark. Her ears rang with the silence as they listened for the tell-tale signs of approaching cars, and her nostrils flared when she smelled the rats skittering along beside them, but she kept her focus, muttering quietly to herself until…

“Here.” Merida stopped short, panting. She bent down, feeling around the stone of the wall. A few of the blocks loosened. Merida grinned and looked at Lou--forgetting, temporarily, that they weren’t friends, that this wasn’t one of Merida’s private escapades. She was no mischeivous Order girl anymore. The rules she was breaking now, she broke as an enemy. 

But for that first second, it didn’t feel like it at all. It felt like Merida was winnin’ again. I found it, Da. Got here all on me own. Think I’m worthy yet? 

Merida wiggled the stone out, one, then another, stacking them on top of each other until there was a narrow tunnel, big enough for them to enter if they kneeled down. They’d crawl through here and then it’d expand, and there’d be a ladder down.

Merida told all of this to Lou now. “Soon as we get down that ladder, there will be a guard. I’m hopin’ it’ll be just one, this entrance isn’t used for anythin’ anymore. I’ll disarm him, you make sure the tunnel is clear, aye?” 

TOULOUSE: They were wearing the same clothes they’d been wearing yesterday.

Never in Toulouse’s life.

(Alright, that wasn’t exactly true, considering when Lou’s depression laid down heavy on his shoulders and pushed him into the mattress, he often wore the same outfit for days at a time. However, this was in the privacy of his own home and was different.)

Never in Toulouse’s life.

Which, honestly, summed up the adventure down to the tunnel which they were now peering into. Never in Toulouse’s life had he gone on any sort of adventure. Certainly not of his own free will. Swynlake often attempted to force him to participate in adventures, but he never did much in those stupid dreams, except date ill-advised people. Which was less of an adventure and more of a very cruel prank of the town.

He had never in his life hopped onto a train track and gone down those long, dark tunnels. There was no thrill about it for him. He sneered as he stepped in a puddle of god-knows-what (not even his wolf could discern, the smells too overwhelming and all over the place.) This was breaking the law, something Lou tried not to do, as the son of a politician who made laws. Who had instilled in him the civic responsibility sense of being a decent human who followed the rules of society. He did not like the idea of Merida pulling rocks out of the wall and sent a glance towards the arched ceiling, half-worrying that the whole thing was going to collapse down on top of them now that part of its structure had been removed.

Lou did not smile at her as she grinned like a buffoon over her shoulder at him.

If anything, he looked like a wet cat. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was frowning deeply. Not so much at Merida herself but just—the everything of his current predicament.

“D’accord,” Lou responded to his instructions with a nod of his head. That was something he could do at least. He waited for Merida to begin making her way down the tunnel before sighing dramatically, dropping his arms from across his chest and carefully picking his way behind her. For a moment, he wished their telepathy extended into their human forms, so that he could say: I cannot believe you are making me crawl through a sewage pipe. Even though it was not a sewage pipe and was actually rather dry.

Instead, he stewed silently and was glad when there was a literal light at the end of the tunnel. He watched as Merida disappeared down the ladder, then waited a moment before following her over. He peaked out into the mostly empty hallway to get his bearings and was that—the flickering of candlelight?

Were there actual torches lit?

Sacre bleu, this Order was legitimately insane.

MERIDA:  Merida ducked down and started their descent. 

Her heart was calm, her movements swift and graceful-- a grace that had little to do with the wolf and everything to do with the woman, who had to learn how to make herself invisible, because that was the way of this world. It was ironic that this invisibility helped Merida in ways the Order would never have endorsed-- helped her sneak place to place, helped her swipe her father’s journals, helped her find places to hide and practice. So even now, in this world, she belonged only to the parts that were made for the likes of her. The tunnels they would be taking proved that. They hugged the edges of the headquarters, squeezed in between the wide, elaborately decorated, generously lit hallways that Lou and Merida would probably (if all went well) never see. These were paths that were meant to be hidden. These were paths for servants. These were paths for the women. 

Merida felt nothing but a deep sense of satisfaction as she used those tunnels now, just as she had always used the Order’s ignorance. She dropped from the ladder with barely a sound and found not even a single guard here. She smirked. Of course not. Of course they would overestimate themselves. And underestimate her.

She would not do the same. As Lou went down one end of the hall, Merida tracked down the other, just enough to confirm that there were no guards. She turned around and jogged to meet him at the other end. Their eyes met. Lou looked bewildered, his nose scrunching. Perhaps at the smell. Perhaps at something else. 

She’d laugh at that expression if they had time. But the quicker they did this, the better.

Merida motioned with her hand and they rounded the corner. She hurried down the hall with a hand on her belt, where her dagger rested. Their footsteps shuffled, the only sound until--

Merida reached back and smacked her hand on Lou’s chest.

Footsteps. Heavy. Wearing boots, Merida figured. She looked back at Lou, held a finger to her lips, then held up a hand in a motion that meant, Stay. 

And then Merida darted around the corner.

SMASH! The clatter of metal rippled through the tunnels. A man yelped. His cry echoed too, but it was just one moment-- one moment and then it was silent again.

“C’mere, Bonfamille!” Merida called. 

When Lou rounded, Merida was wiggling a helmet off the guard’s face. She tossed it to Lou. Her smile stretched over her face-- wolfish, brightening the blue flame of her eyes. 

“How do ye feel about playin’ dress up?” 

TOULOUSE: Toulouse was infinitely glad that there were no guards in the hallway. His stomach was tearing itself apart with nerves, though he did a very good job of ignoring them. He had quite a lot of practice at such things, having been presenting his art for criticism from very young. That foreboding feeling was a familiar companion, as a child he had felt it often; waiting for his father to come home, for the fighting to begin.

This was the same feeling—waiting for the fighting to begin.

When Merida grabbed his chest and pushed him back, Toulouse felt his heart beating in his entire body. It was a wild, loud thing. The wolf had a hold of it between his teeth. It felt like it was in Lou’s throat. What a pesky thing, that heart, his mortality. He wished the wolf would devour it. That heart of his made him a coward—made him afraid to die.

He flinched at the clamour of armor, the sound of fighting. It only took a second, but it felt like a lifetime. He didn’t move from his spot at the wall, wondering if it had been Merida, in the end who’d been bested by the guard. What would he do if that was the case? The wolf raised its head and Lou knew the answer: he would find Claude, even if he had to rip the throat out of every crazy bastard in this place.

Merida called his name and Lou gave a jerk before sucking in a breath and rounding the corner. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and scowled at her.

“Silver is not my colour. I am warm-toned,” he deadpanned—even though it was true. Toulouse never wore silver jewelry if he could help it. It washed him out. However, the helmet was not jewelry. And he also knew Merida wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, he took it from her delicately and scrunched his nose as he dressed.

“If you thought I was useless to you before, I certainly will be now,” he hissed at her once he finished, sighing harshly. The sound echoed through the helmet and rang in his sensitive wolf-ears. This was going to give him a headache. “What now?” 

MERIDA:  “Actually, you’re much more useful to me now, mate. Before you were a walking target. Least now if someone tries to stab ye, maybe they won’t poke all the way through.” Merida’s eyes glittered as she said this as if it were a joke. 

And maybe it was a joke, though she meant every word. A Toulouse with a breast plate might not die as fast as a Toulouse without one. 

She didn’t wait to see how her joke might land (she didn’t have to wait; she knew that this bloke had no sense of humour, having been inside his brain). Merida dragged the Order lackey around the corner instead, grabbing his dagger for good measure. She was back the next second, ushering Lou on. 

“Stand on the outside of me, aye? Try to look like ye belong here.” 

They twisted down the halls, moving fast. They were still mostly empty. It was almost too easy, thought Merida to herself, though she had a good idea as to where everyone was-- already feasting down in the main halls before the month’s baptisms. An Order full of drunk men with swords, a handful of who were probably shirking these very posts in order to nip the lamb and wet their fingers with wine. Still, twice Merida grabbed Lou and they hid again as a few Knights passed by. 

They were getting close now. It was about to get harder. Breaking in had always been the relatively easy part.

Merida paused when the nursery was just up one more hallway. The halls were brighter here, clean and tiled. You could hear the voices of the women not only in the nursery, but in the dressing rooms. Laughter. Singing. Merida could close her eyes and remember herself here, stuck in a chair as her mother tried to tame her wild curls into something presentable. She could remember feeling too big for her own skin. How she’d hated it--

But those songs. That reminded Merida of her mother too, and her chest burned with a yearning that no one ever truly outgrew. 

Merida just had to ignore it.

“Alright,” she hissed. “This...this is the hard part. Your cousin should be in the first room to the left. But as you can hear...not exactly alone. There will be other babies too.” She sighed and licked her bottom lip.

“You could play pretend and see how far you get. Tell them that Sorcha, perhaps, sent you to…” the lie trailed off and died in the air. Merida didn’t know how to finish it off. It’d be so obvious, wouldn’t it? What Knight would enter with his helmet down? Why would a Knight come to fetch a babe?

The alternative was Merida kicking the door down, grabbing the nearest lady, and hoping no one screamed.

Someone would scream. 

TOULOUSE: Toulouse tried not to let Merida’s morose humor get underneath his armor (quite literally, ha.) He was not so much worried about stabbing as he was the wolf trying to burst out of its new metal cage. It had been restless before, but now, Lou’s hands shook, and he could not tell if it was his own nerves or the wolf just below his skin.

Taking a breath, he did as he was told, because there was no reason to argue. Lou may not trust Merida, but he did acknowledge that she had more experience than him in these criminal matters.

It was silent, but never still. Lou’s eyes darted, looking at every door like it was the mouth of a trap. His ears strained, putting his new senses to as much use as possible, listening for approaching soldiers. (And, honestly, the whole thing was so disorientingly medieval, Lou felt like he had walked into some sort of renaissance faire. (His tantine had loved Renaissance faires, she had found them so creative and quaint. She’d taken him to one once when he was a boy and bought him a sword, which his mother had promptly taken away from him.)

It was with those new ears of his that he heard the women before Merida even stopped them and he felt sick to his stomach again. His gaze slid to hers, though he kept getting distracted every time there was an uproar of laughter or delighted squeals—which was fairly often. It reminded Lou, strangely, of the summer plays. The same kind of frenetic energy sizzled through the air, everyone in preparation.

Pretend…

Well, Lou figured the alternative was Merida doing something—Merida-ish, which would hurt their cause more that Lou attempting to pass as an Order member for long enough to get his hands on his nephew (though, maybe he should give Merida playing pretend more credit, considering she’d lied to Belle for months without detection.) The thought made the wolf whine in his chest.

“I’ll do my best,” Lou said, straightening his shoulders somewhat. “Wish me luck.”

With that, he didn’t waste another moment, the wolf urging him forward. He just wanted to set sights on Claude.

When he entered the room, he blinked a bit. It was much brighter than the hallway. It was immediately clear that he stuck out. All the women were lovely and perfumed, their hair shining beneath the lights. They giggled in corners, doing their make-up, holding babes. There were a few children in the corner, playing with dolls in pretty white dresses. It was clear that he did not belong. Even if he was not a wolf, or an outsider. There was not a man among the entire group. As soon as his presence was noticed, a silence settled. The flurry of activity ended.

Lou hardly noticed any of this—

He had his sights set on Claude, who was sitting on the lap of a woman he didn’t know. He swallowed once. The baby was so close, only a few meters away. Lou could cross the room in two strides and be at his cousin’s side. He kept rooted to the spot by sheer force of will. Even the wolf realizing they were surrounded and had to tread lightly.

“Oi, what are you doing down here?” one of the women, older than most of the rest if he had to guess, snapped at him.

Lou jerked slightly, though the ill-fitting armor gave him away. He reached up and removed his helmet. It was probably a poor move, but he was sweating. He was nervous. But, Lou had been trained for things like this. He was not a warrior, but he had manners.

“Pardon me, my ladies,” he said, roughing up his accent to disguise the French. It was not so hard to sound British, he sounded more British than he would like already on the day to day, having now lived in this country longer than he had ever lived in France. He had to fight to keep his accent, but now, he let it go. If it meant getting Claude back, he’d let it all go.

“I was sent by Lady de Chateaupers,” he continued after a moment, taking his time, “to gather young Claude. His grandmother would like to introduce him to a few other of the lords and ladies.” The lie was as smooth as it could be. He remembered what that vile woman had said: he’s my only grandchild. It felt in character for her to want to brag.

The two oldest women looked at each other. One put her hands on her hips, unconvinced.

“Why send you?” she scoffed.

Toulouse blinked, it was a good question. “I, uh—all the women are busy, of course., in preparation, including Lady de Chateaupers I volunteered. I have many siblings, he’ll be in good hands with me.”

Give him back, the wolf growled.

“Who are ye?” snapped the other matron.

Cannard. Lou had thought to escape without giving a name. “Uhm, Lou.”

“Not your name, boy—your family.” Her eyes narrowed.

The only families that Lou was aware of who were part of the order were the de Chateaupers and— “DunBroch, ma’am,” he said, attempting to keep the annoyance out of his voice, surely Merida was getting a kick out of this. “Lou DunBroch.”

“I don’t recognize you,” the woman said bluntly.

“Well, you DunBrochs breed like there is no tomorrow, isn’t that right, Millie?” the woman with her hands on her hips looked over at a young woman.

Millie—the woman who just so happened to be holding Claude—stood up from where she was sitting and wandered a little closer.

Lou could feel his heart in his whole body.

“He does have the DunBroch hair…”

I most certainly do not, Lou wanted to sniff. Merida’s hair was a completely different shade of red than his own. Hers was richer, redder, deeper. His was copper, dark, and earthy.

Claude looked up at Lou, blinking his pretty blue eyes. He was close enough that he could smell him. That soft, sweet smell.

Family, keened the wolf in Lou’s chest.

Lou smiled and reached up to touch his air. “Aye,” he said—trying not to sound to Scottish, he knew he’d never get away with it, but perhaps he had picked up some colloquials growing up.

Millie moved a step closer, peering at him. “Who’s your da?”

Fuck.

A second passed. Then another.

Millie drew back.

Toulouse didn’t think then, the wolf took over in a flash. He reached forward and grabbed Claude by his chunky arm and ripped him out of Millie’s grip. A clamor started at once. The baby began to cry, making Lou’s heart squeeze—hoping he had not hurt him. Millie, to her credit, launched towards Lou, her fingers curled like claws. Lou tucked Claude to his chest with one hand and pushed Millie back with the other. His helmet clattered to the ground.

“Thief!” shouted one woman.

“Help!” cried another.

“Merida!” barked Lou as he started stumbling backwards out of the room.

The oldest woman, who had been hawk-eyed from the first moment, appeared next to him and tried to wrench Claude away again. A growl ripped from Lou’s chest, his eyes flashing, before he could think about it. The woman froze in her shock.

“Beast!” she cried as she recoiled.

“It’s the wolf!”

Someone screamed then, a proper, high-pitched wail, as if she was being pulled apart.

MERIDA: This was a bad idea.

But there were no good ideas here, were there? Sometimes, that’s just how it was. But sometimes, those bad ideas became the best stories. They became the legends that men told over and over as they sloshed their beer and laughed over each other. They became the songs that children learned. The songs that Merida carried with her in her heart, never to fade no matter how far she got from this world. It would still be the fabric she was sewn with. She clutched one dagger, tilted her head, her ears ringing with the voices of her sisters, her aunts, the women who had once raised her too. She hoped this bad idea would work a miracle worth a song. She did not want any of them hurt.

She was listening for something else too. She leaned around the wall, held her breath as the conversation meandered from woman to woman. She recognized each voice enough, but they were not the voice she was listening for. 

Elinor. Mum. Are you there? Mum, don’t be there. Please, don’t be there...

And then things started to fall apart, that bad idea a wobbling tower waiting for one last shove, innit? The adrenaline piqued inside her. The wolf was awake, but far away. Merida flexed her fingers over her dagger. 

Who’s your da?

Merida darted around the corner at this question and burst into the room by the time the woman had let out a cry. 

“MERIDA!” 

Merida’s eyes found her cousin’s face in the lamplight-- young, raven-haired Senga. Her bright blue eyes widened. First, there was a flicker of relief, relief triggered on instinct, because before Merida was a traitor, before she was a beast, she was one of them. Senga believed that Merida might save them all. 

She remembered that look in her Da’s face right before he picked up his knife.

Merida didn’t wait for the moment to pass. She followed the plan. Their very, very, very bad plan. She grabbed her own cousin, petal-pretty Senga, and yanked  her out of the room, knife tip pointed at Senga’s throat. She slammed the door shut and locked it (because yes-- these doors all have locks on the outside. To keep people in as much as to keep them out). 

Senga trembled, already sobbing. 

“You’ll be fine if ye just do exactly what we say,” Merida hissed. They stumbled, all of them, down the hall.  Merida’s ears rang with the sound of the men stampeding down the hall. They were going to collide in the south wing and there was no avoidin’ that.

“I don’t want to be a werewolf!” Senga sobbed. “I don’t want to die! Puh-puh-puh-lease--!” 

“Crivvens, no one’s turnin’ you! Shite, Lou, here they come, give her the damn baby!” 

And sure enough, they ran into the wing at the same time as the patrol of guards. 

Everyone stopped and stared at everyone else. 

Merida yanked Senga against her chest, that knife’s edge still at her throat. Wails from the baby filled the air, wails from Senga too. “If ye move a step more, I’ll cut her throat!” Merida threatened. 

A man flipped up his visor--”Merida.” 

Uncle Domnhall. Well. It’d be strange not to run into a couple of family members wouldn’t it? Merida’s jaw clicked but she didn’t loosen her grip. The rest of the armored men stood stupid-still. She could guess there were all Knights, the lot of them-- the true Princes takin’ the night off for the baptism. Though they could be suitin’ up now, heading their way. The longer Merida waited here, the more she risked runnin’ in with skilled Princes just like Uncle Dom. Could she take Uncle Dom? Maybe. Maybe because of the wolf’s strength and speed. But not even Merida was sure about that.  

Merida’s heels pressed back, sliding one, two, three steps. She dragged Senga with her. “I’ll leave her somewhere ye can find her.”

“Merida!” hissed Uncle Domhall again and he drew his sword. 

Merida flicked the knife tip over Senga’s chin. Senga shrieked and blood pearled, shiny as rubies. Merida’s nostrils flared. Inside, the wolf’s teeth bared. 

Uncle Domnhall’s eyes hardened and in that second, she saw that her threat had the opposite effect. He didn’t believe that she’ll do it-- slit her own cousin’s throat. She might be a monster to them all, but in that moment, Domnhall made a decision based on Merida’s humanity.

 He flipped down his visor.

“Fuck.” Merida shoved Senga into the wall and dodged left to avoid Domnhall’s lunge. Senga shrieked. 

An order ripped from Domnhall’s lips. “ATTACK.”

The knights surged. 

The thing about combat was, it was so fast. There was no thinking. Sometimes you make the right choice and sometimes you make the wrong one, and if you make the wrong one, then that’s the end for you-- no do-overs. Later, Merida wouldn’t remember if it was her years of training after all, if it was her desire to live, or if it was the wolf that directed her dance. But it only took a few seconds: 

Domnhall lunged again, swinging his sword. Merida feinted much faster than he was guessing and ducked under his arm as graceful as a ballerina. She thrust her dagger straight under his armpit, between the armor’s plates. Uncle Domnhall howled and Merida swung him into the wall. She grabbed him by the helmet and smashed him into the wall. One, two, three times. 

When her uncle crumbled to the ground, Merida couldn’t stop to think about whether or not she’d smashed his skull into little pieces. 

Instead, Merida picked up his sword and jumped into the fray. 

TOULOUSE: For Lou, time had two speeds and only two speeds: mind-spinning fast and aching slow. He had lived like a scale, attempting to balance between the two for so long he did not remember what it was like not to, for so long that he had not even realized that it was not way most experienced the world. It was exhausting, the constant push and pull. When his mind was working slow, it was like trying to walk through waist deep mud. Every step required more energy than he felt possible of giving. Every word dripped from people’s lips—his lips—like the slow drip of honey. When his world moved fast, Lou felt like he was flying. He always liked these fast-paced ups more than he liked the molasses downs.

Now, the world spun fast, but it wasn’t Lou’s brain making it happen. At least, Lou was quite sure it wasn’t. Usually, when Lou was spinning, spinning, spinning—it was more like soaring. Like rising fast through the sky. Sure, the earth was getting closer, but the trajectory was smooth. It only blipped when he was confronted by someone telling him to stop, telling him he had messed up, that things were wrong. Then, everything accordioned on itself, creating a confusion of thoughts and feelings. He was still soaring, but through clouds that had him turned around: up from down, right from left all looked the same.

That was what the bowels of this Order Headquarters felt like. All the walls looked the same. Every stone. Everything was wrong, unfamiliar. It did not fit into Lou’s brain. Their feet stumbled and tripped together down the corridors. Claude wailed and wailed and clung to the blunt edge of the armour Lou was still wearing. Lou wanted to wish that he was not wearing the armor, so that he could hold Claude close and the babe could feel his warmth and smell his skin and know that he was safe, with family.

Lou did not have time to even think to wish these things. Everything happened so quickly. As the fighting erupted, Lou felt his brain snap into place like a rubber band. As the swords flashed, Lou realized that he was holding a baby and that he needed to do something. Spinning on his heel, he shoved Claude at the woman whimpering on the floor.

“If you run, I will find you,” he threatened, a growl rumbling from his throat.

The woman whimpered and hugged Claude close like a baby doll.

The next moment, Lou turned back to face the soldiers. Two were already on top of him, since his back had been turned. One with a spear that he thrust towards Lou. The same way he’d felt it when practicing with Merida, Lou felt the wolf snatch control, turning Lou’s torso at just the last moment so that the tip of the spear glanced off of the breastplate. However, the impact almost knocked the wind out of Lou, causing him to stumble as the other man’s sword swung. He felt the breeze of it graze over his head.

In the chaos, he tried to remember what Merida had told him. However, he could only remember one thing: Claude. It was an instinct more than a thought, a gut-punch, a rod that straightened Lou’s back and kept him pinned in place.

Reaching as he stumbled, Lou grabbed the spear the one man was holding and with the help of the wolf, snapped it into two. He now had a hold of the sharp end, which he swung in an arch towards the men with a snarl like a cornered animal (which he was). One of the men tripped backwards, perhaps more afraid of the noise than the clumsy brandishing of the spear, but Lou pressed his advantage, stepping forward again, thrusting with the spear towards the soldier.

This left him open to the other man, whose sword slashed again through the air, catching Lou in the exposed arm.

It happened in a blink. It happened in the screeching groan of mangling metal as the wolf burst forth from the man and landed agile on its feet, growling low and harsh as it positioned itself in front of the woman and babe, its tail thrashing. This time, when the braver knight parried forward with its sword, the wolf lunged too, dodging the blade and snapping at the man’s wrist. With a shout, the man stumbled backwards and the wolf, unlike the man, didn’t hesitate to bound forward, grabbing the solider by the shin, its teeth wrapped around the thin metal there, which contorted itself and cut into the man’s skin, the scent of blood filling the wolf’s nose.

MERIDA:  They had to get out of here.

Merida’s brain and her body had separated. Her body was acting on a different channel than her mind. It was all instinct for her body, lunging into the thicket and cutting the back of the knees of one Knight, then smashing her body into another so they barreled together into the wall again. She flipped him over her shoulder and stomped her boot once into the bloke’s neck, making him gargle and wheeze. She caught the sword of another and used all the strength of the wolf to shove it off, so hard that the bloke’s weapon was tossed aside. She jumped and kicked him straight in the chest, then spun again and her swords collided with another again.

She did all this as if the fight had been choreographed and all she was doing was following those steps. One after the other, after the other. Slashing, dodging-- she was sword and body. 

But while she did these things, her mind spun, not instructions exactly, but-- things she couldn’t ignore.

That they had to go.

That Lou was a wolf now, and he could kill them all, her family-- 

They were still her family--

That these boys, they crumpled easily because they were young, younger than her. This was not the Order’s best soldiers. She caught the flashing, familiar green eyes of Lionel Simons, who was barely 18. Had he turned 18 when she was gone? Had he failed his first hunt? Lionel Simons might become a werewolf hunter one day and face her, a silver bullet in his rifle, but for now, he was a teenager, screaming, forced into this life the way that Merida had been forced into hers.

These truths made Merida smash and cut, but never kill. 

Merida didn’t believe that Lou, his wolf, would do the same. 

“NO!” She bellowed it without thinking when Lou’s teeth crushed a boy’s leg. It might have been from her body this cry came from, not her mind. 

A flash of her own attack passed through her memory though. The red-hot terror and the crunch of Akela’s teeth. It was the moment she’d died. It distracted her enough that Merida let Lionel Simons slash his sword, and she moved a hair too slow. The tip grazed her, cutting her shirt like butter and kissing her skin with brand new pain.

Merida’s body kicked in again and she swung Domnhall’s sword back at Lionel. Hard. They clashed, and Merida swung a second, third, fourth time, beating Lionel all the way back down the hall before he failed to block her. She crashed her sword into his shoulder plate, hard enough to bruise him and upset his balance. She raised her sword above her head and brought the hilt down onto Lionel’s helmet. He collapsed, whimpering, and let go of his sword--

He was a coward, exactly the kind of Knight she resented because she’d always been better.

He was also, still, just a boy.

“Leave!” she spat at him. “Run! All of you! Do you want to be turned? Do you want to die?” Merida swung her arm toward Lou’s wolf and Lionel, sobbing, scrambled and retreated.Several other boys followed him at once. 

Merida spun around and sprinted back to Senga, cowering there, covering the head of little Claude. 

“Give me the baby,” she demanded. She wrenched screaming Claude from Senga’s arm. “Run!” 

Senga crawled to her feet and tripped her way down the hall. 

She spun back to see Lou, and the boy he’d bitten. “We have to go,” she told the wolf.

TOULOUSE: The wolf’s instinct had grabbed a hold of Lou and thrust him into the very back of his own mind. It was almost as if the boy did not exist. There was just the wolf and its desire to protect its family.

The wolf’s ears could hear the sound of screaming, of crying, of Merida’s breath. The wolf’s nose smelt iron, iron, iron. It wanted to taste more of it, the pit in its belly yawning. Its head shook slightly, a growl still in its throat. It wanted to bite through all the mangled armor. It wanted to taste the iron of its enemies’ blood, not the iron of a steel plate.

The bloodlust distracted the wolf long enough for the boy’s partner to pick up the spear from where it lay discarded amongst the shredded metal the wolf had burst from. With a thrust, the spear pierced the wolf’s shoulder. The blood was forgotten in favor of the flash of blinding pain. Throwing its head back, the wolf howled.

For a second, in their conscious, the wolf and Lou tumbled about, disoriented as their shoulder throbbed. Lou’s heartbeat fast in his chest as blood dripped onto the floor. No longer just the boy’s but Lou’s as well. It was Lou who seized with fear, who remembered that sharp, blinding pain—though he had not felt such a thing in many years. Suddenly, he was twenty-one again, laying dying in a dark trailer.

The spear was yanked out of the flesh, causing another flash of pain. The wolf stumbled and half-collapsed as its leg gave out beneath it, the muscles torn. It regained its balance as it retreated, pursued by the other man, whose confidence grew with every stumbling step the wolf took. Once it stood sturdy again, it realized it was much too close to the woman who was holding the babe. Her scent, the babe’s scent wiping the smell of blood from its nostrils. Still snarling, the wolf lunged towards the man, snapping its jaws.

With a shout, the man’s cowardice fled and the man followed it down the hall. The wolf stood panting, its shoulder twitching in pain, blood dripping onto the floor. It took a moment to realize that most of the hall was now still. Most of the enemies gone. But not safe—not yet.

It was then Merida yanked Claude from the girl and his cry rend through the air. Swinging his head about, Lou growled harshly before he recognized Merida’s scent and blinked to see pack, not foe. The growl died in his throat and instead, the wolf looked down the hall towards where the woman was retreating, making sure no others were coming.  

At Merida’s command, the wolf’s ears flicked and he looked back at her. 

With a huff of breath, the creature padded towards the exit. It could smell the direction to go in. The dampness of the tunnel they’d crawled through on the way here. It looked back over its shoulder at Merida and let out a soft whine.

Let’s go then, that look communicated.

He waited until she was following and then he slipped down the corridor, the torchlight glinting off his golden fur and making the blood on his shoulder garishly bright against the ochre red of his fur.

[ourcollectivefantasy]

send me a 🌻 and ill just tell you whatever the fuck i want

Here’s a blast from the past blog from when Iloam and @kharrisdawndancer were still together, but starting to experience the first fractures in their marriage. 

ANGST AND FEELS AHEAD.

“What I’ll Never Get Back.” 1145 words. Rated G.

There's coloured paper and tissue strewn about nearly every surface of the small rented cottage. The window panes are completely frosted over, but I don't need to be able to see out to tell you it's still snowing. Last I opened the door the drift was up just above my knee and Dog had run out so quickly that we'd spent over an hour wading through it calling out for that blasted skunk. I'd told Kharris he'd die quite honorably providing a light snack for the local Yeti population; but that had earned me a snowball to the ear and a good telling off in some rather colourful Thalassian. Needless to say after that morning adventure, we'd spent the rest of the day inside with the pipe stove and the fireplace at a constant roar.

Normally I hate being cooped up, especially with only one real exit and miles of untouched snow between us and Everlook, but she brings out unexpected parts of me nearly every day it seems, sometimes. She always has. Not everybody gets me and Kharris at first glance (or second or third or ever) - and I suppose that’s why. So much of us... is only for us.

I've been --- no, I had been -- trying to get a bit better about showing her affection in public. Sharing her and I with those that don't deserve it, if you want to know how I really feel about it. But it mattered to her. I'd seen how she'd smile a bit at those silly couples necking at White Hart or holding hands in Silvermoon park. She'd not say it or ask me to, of course, but I knew she fancied that I'd do those things every once in awhile. I'm not sure why, entirely. It seemed more important to me that we keep what we have just between us and special - like a whispered secret held on our breaths for eternity... But I'd seen that need there; the sort that makes her smile falter for a brief second and her dimples start to fade off right before she pushes her smile even brighter and deeper - the kind she flashes at the crowd when she's on stage. I bloody hate when she gives me that smile. It means she's wounded and she doesn't want me to know.

So that's one of the things you didn't know about us. Or me, if you're going to pick at me words like that. It absolutely kills me when she's sad. I'll do anything to make it better.

... Problem is... most times it's me that makes her sad, I think. Especially lately.

That's why we’re here today; tucked off in a little Winter wonderland perfect enough that it could be a scene from a painting above some poofter's fireplace. I'd come last week to find the perfect little stone cottage, just a short walk from Lake Kel'Theril. It's Dwarven made, so the ceilings are a bit low and we've got to stoop, but otherwise it’s perfect. I'd put candles in all the windows and garlands of tundraberries along the doorways, even put up a wee tree that fit in the sitting room. Funny that we'd been together this long and I do believe it was the first time we'd ever had a tree for Winter's Veil.

In any case, the second day I set about stocking the cabinets with enough Honeymeade and Spiced Rum to host an army. There was also every treat I could think of that we might want should we get snowed in (just as we have): treacle tarts, honeyed almonds, peanut brittle, salt water taffy, rock candies, butterscotch and maple and molasses candies, fruitcake, clementines, sugared plums and strawberries. There was an also entire tin of chocolate caramels solely for me, hidden in the back of the cabinet (I never said I wasn't selfish). This isn't to say we're complete gluttons - I did pack away some meat pies and a cheese wheel, a couple of beef sticks and bread with jam and butter, and a pumpkin squash should Kharris feel inclined to cook. But truth be told I was hoping to leave her barely able to leave the bed over our few days holiday. A little malnutrition wouldn't kill us.

And so it hasn't. She looks perfectly radiant at the moment, curled up on the couch with a fur blanket tucked around her like a fortress and Farthing curled at her feet like a sleeping dragon guarding the moat. He seems to sense my scrutiny from above the spine of the book I'm pretending to read (a gift from this morning from my brother Keiran - "Dastardly Denizens of the Deep!" A collection of tales on sea monsters) and opens one watchful eye before yawning and resettling into his catnap.

In a single moment that blasted beast makes me feel exactly how I've been attempting to avoid feeling all day. The same feeling that’s hung over me since I came stumbling back into Kharris' Dalaran flat in the middle of the night after being gone for half the year. She holds me tight in whenever we can, and twitches and mumbles for me in her fitful nightmares, but it hasn't escaped me that the entire time I was gone, she didn't go looking for me. There was no rise of panic and frantic searching - not like she did when Bellani went missing, or the times I have before. I suspect she'd simply grown tired of searching. My life... our life... doesn't exactly lend itself to that level of reaction every single time things go massively pear shaped. But there's something else to it. Something I can't place, like an odd little corner piece to a puzzle that's been put in the wrong box. There's something she's keeping from me that’s hidden in the tiredness in her eyes and the slight tenseness to her elbows when I hold her.

She doesn't trust me anymore. She knows for all my grand gestures and expensive presents and whispered promises while we tangle in the sheets... there will always be something else that takes me away, and because of that - she can't give herself to me fully like she used to. She's grown tired and hurt. I don't think she knows that I can feel it and I can see it.

... And even her bloody cat looks at me like an unwelcome ex-lover that's overstayed his welcome.

I watch her stretch awake from her nap and catch me looking at her. She flashes me a knock-out grin, her dimples deep and flirtatious as she rubs her calves together under her blankets and her dark, almond shaped eyes smoulder my way. She purrs something about working up an appetite before tea.

She has no idea how much I miss what I'll never get back from her.

I flash her my stage smile.

[all-the-love-harold]

The Daily Anna - Chapter 5

I’m sorry that this one has taken so long (I say that every time, I know) but a massive shout out has to go to @lovesmelikebrandnewstarlight who is an absolute angel and helps me out when I get stuck. 

Please let me know your thoughts 

Master Post 

June 20th New York.

 “Central Park please” Harry said to the driver who did a double take when he saw Harry’s face as they climbed into the yellow taxi.

“Are you sure this is a good idea Harry?” Anna asked as she stared out the window at the buildings that towered around them.

“It’s an awful idea,” he said looking at her with a smirk plastered onto his face “but you can’t go to New York without going to Central Park.”

“What happened to not getting seen together?” She questioned. Not that she cared that much about being linked to him, but she understood why he wanted to keep it quiet for now.

“We can’t live our lives under a rock, sooner or later,they’re going to find out.” The park appeared in their view and Harry picked up Anna’s bag before she had the chance to fight him on it, “and I want to take you to Central Park, so I guess it will be sooner” he placed a kiss on her forehead and paid the taxi driver using his card.

They stepped out of the cab and Anna felt her stomach drop as she realised how many young girls were hanging around the area. It didn’t seem to phase Harry though, he simply held onto Anna’s hand, without a care who saw it. They walked along in silence for a while, until they got to the spot where they were meant to meet Mitch and Sarah and much to Anna’s surprise, not one person stopped them, she did catch a few people doing the same double take that the taxi driver had when they got into the car, but no one seemed to care that he was with her.

“This seems like a nice spot,” Harry said, sitting himself down on an open patch of grass, basking in the sunlight.

Anna joined him, sitting cross legged by his side. “How late are we thinking Mitch and Sarah will be?”

“If Mitch has any say in it, they’ll be on time, but I don’t think Mitch gets a say” Harry laughed

Anna nodded “I think you might be wrong there”, she pointed towards the two figures walking towards them.

“Don’t tell Mitch I said that!” he whispered into her ear as he stood up to greet them. Anna was nervous not only about getting spotted and ambushed by Harry’s fans, but also about spending this much time with Sarah. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her, it was quite the opposite actually, she really wanted to be friends with her, but she found her intimidating and even more so when Mitch was around. In the three weeks that Anna had spent on tour with Harry so far, she had gotten close with Clare and even Helene, but she hadn’t been able to talk to Sarah.

“There’s an amazing hotdog stand not far from here” Mitch said as Anna tuned back into the conversation.“They even have vegan options,” he looked at Sarah knowing there was no way she’d be eating a hot dog, or letting him for that matter.

“Well I did promise Anna the full New York experience” Harry said looking at Anna

“I’m not that hungry,” she admitted “I’ll just have some of yours”

Harry looked at her, a little concerned by the lack of food she’d eaten over the last few days.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah” she smiled “I’m fine, just can’t eat a hot dog that big”

A smile stretched across Mitch's face “You sure about that Anna?”

Anna’s cheeks flushed red and she rolled her eyes at him as Harry cackled at the joke.

“Should we go then?” Sarah interrupted looking at Anna with a smile. The boys nodded and Harry grabbed Anna’s hand once again. Jokes like that didn’t usually bother Anna, but her and Harry were yet to sleep together, in fact, it had been almost a year since Anna had slept with anyone, and the last thing she wanted was for it to be awkward when it finally happened with Harry.

 The hotdog stand sat near a bridge and more open grass, but there were a lot more people around and one of them, just happened to recognise Harry.

“Harry?” the girl said as she got closer to them.

He held onto Anna’s hand a little tighter, which is the last thing she expected him to do, she figured if any fan even looked at them then he would drop her hand.

“Hi,” he said softly, not wanting to be rude, but suddenly very aware that this was the first time he’d ever been out in public with Anna.

“Oh my god it is you, I wasn’t sure if it was, didn’t think you’d be in Central Park”

“When in town..” he smiled “What’s your name love?”

“Jessica,” she said, tears forming in her eyes “I’ve been a fan since the beginning, shit I never thought I’d get to meet  you”

“Thank you” Harry smiled and dropped Anna’s hand, opening his arms to hug the girl “bring it in” he said and she did, she hugged him as the tears spilled out of her eyes and he wouldn’t let go until she did.

“Can I get a photo?” she asked as she pulled away, carelessly shoving her phone into Anna’s hand. She was a little taken aback by the gesture, but she took the shots anyway, as both Harry and the girl smiled for the camera. Sarah and Mitch had ducked away to avoid taking photos too and were already busy getting their food, so Anna stood awkwardly as Harry said goodbye.

“See,” he said once she was out of earshot “She didn’t even notice”

“People are going to care eventually Harry” Anna took his hand again

“That’s fine by me” he leant down and kissed her cheek “now are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“Yeah” she nodded “I’m not hungry”

“We don’t have to get hot dogs, we can get something else if you’d prefer?” He knew she hadn’t eaten much breakfast this morning and he was starting to get worried about her.

“Hot dogs are fine Haz, I’ll have a bite of yours but I’m really not hungry”

“You didn’t eat breakfast” he said looking concerned

“I had a banana”

“Doesn’t count, what’s going on love?”

“Apparently I don’t deal well with jetlag”

He nodded “We can go home and nap if you want?”

“Get your food first” she smiled.

 If she was honest, she was over the jetlag, it had been three weeks, but the constant travel was getting to her and now that her and Harry were sharing a room, she was having trouble sleeping, she wasn’t used to having someone sleeping next to her and Harry snored louder than she thought humanly possible. She wasn’t hungry because she was tired and she was tired because she needed her space, but she didn’t want to be away from Harry.

Mitch and Sarah had already sat down in a shady spot under a tree and were quite content with each other. Harry looked at Anna and then at his two bandmates and back to Anna.

“They’re happy over there, let’s go home and we’ll order something in”

 ***

Anna had woken up feeling wonderful this morning, but by the time 6pm rolled around she was feeling ill again and she had no idea why. She slept like a baby last night and she’d even eaten breakfast, which isn’t something she did when she was home, she usually skipped straight to lunch but this morning Harry had insisted on cooking her breakfast and she had to admit he was a pretty good cook.  

But it was 6:30 pm now and she was sitting backstage at Madison Square Garden, her laptop open to a blank document, sipping on a green tea, hoping that it would make her feel better, or at least inspire her to write something. Since being on tour with Harry her blog had taken a backseat, she had a lot to write about and things she’d love to share with her followers, but she couldn’t because no one knew there was anything going on with her and Harry. Of course there were the few fans that had their suspicions, but no one believed that they were actually dating, as far as his fandom was concerned, he was still with Camille and Anna was happy to leave it at that for a little while longer but that did make it hard for her to write blog posts about her travels. She didn’t doubt that those with suspicions would compare her itinerary to Harry’s and realise that it was exactly the same.

“Clarrrre” Anna moaned as Clare sat down next to her

“Annnnna” she mimicked Anna’s tone and rested her head on the table.

“I don’t have anything to write about!”

Clare sat up and looked around the room “Ping Pong,” she laughed and  pointed at the rather intense ping pong competition that Harry had organised.

Anna thought for a minute, “I think too many Harry fans know about the ping pong thing”

“And?” Clare said. “They also think he was dating Camille”

“I like that it’s our secret for now,” she admitted.

“He really likes you Anna” Clare said, lowering her voice so that no one could hear them “I’ve only known him for two years, but I’ve never seen him act the way he does around you.”

 “Don’t you find it strange that he had Camille on the first half of the tour and now I’m here?” This was something that Anna hadn’t really been able to let go of, as much as she liked Harry, she couldn’t help but see Ronnie’s point, she was just a tour buddy, once it all ends and he can go back to his normal life Anna would be forgotten about.

“I don’t know much about what happened between them” Clare admitted “but I know that for most of the European leg, he did whatever he could to avoid being alone with her and after that she disappeared.”

“He told me it was all sex”

“Exactly. I don’t think it’s weird that you’re here now An, I think he likes you enough to try and make it work, but he had the next few months of his life already set out for him and the only way he could make it work with you is to have you here”

“You might be right”

“I don’t want to be invasive or anything, but have you two had sex yet?”

“No” Anna blushed “there’s been a few times when it could have happened but we both made excuses”

“That’s good” Clare nodded “means there’s more to the relationship, but don’t let it go to long”

“It’s mostly my fault, I keep chickening out” as close as she’d gotten to Clare over the last few weeks, this was the first time they’d spoken about anything like this and she felt a little weird about it considering Harry was technically Clare’s boss.

“Why?” she didn’t seem phased by the conversation.

“It’s been almost a year” Anna hid her face in her hands “what if they’ve changed it?”

Clare giggled and put her hand on Anna’s back, “I assure you, it hasn’t changed”

 “Oi Elliot”, Harry called across the room bringing their conversation to an end as Anna turned around to face him.

“Oi Styles” Anna called back, a grin on her face

“You’re up love,” he twisted the ping pong bat in his hand and picked up the other one,holding it out to her

She shut her laptop and stood up, making her way towards him.

“I don’t think I’ve played ping pong since I was about 10,” she said taking the bat off him

“I’ll be gentle,” he winked at her and Clare started giggling from the sidelines “What’s gotten into her?” he asked

“Oh, we were just having a chat”, Anna smiled “Now it’s game on Styles.”

Harry had his game face on, and so did Anna, even though she’s avoided ping pong at all costs since the beginning of the tour. Sports had never been her thing and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of him but today was different. She knew how nervous he was about this show and she thought that maybe this would keep him distracted before he had to go on stage.

“You call that a trick shot Styles?” Anna said as she hit the ball back to him

“No”, he smirked “I’m being gentle” and with that he used all the power in his right hand to hit the ball back to Anna. She hadn’t been expecting it to be going so fast so when she swung her arm, she missed, the little orange ball sped right past her and Harry burst out laughing.

“What happened to being gentle?” she pouted as she turned around to fetch the ball.

“Well I’m not going to just let you win love” he shrugged “so are we going to play properly? Or are you forfeiting now?”

“I don’t give up that easily”

“Don’t you?” he laughed “I seem to remember you giving up on uni pretty easily”

Anna gritted her teeth through a giggle “Oh it’s on Styles”

She threw the ball up to serve but missed on the swing. Harry raised his eyebrows and held back a laugh but he didn’t say anything, he simply put his bat down and walked around the table so that he was standing behind Anna.

“Let me show you” he wrapped his arms around her and adjusted her hands on the paddle. “Line the ball up with your paddle” he said,picking the ball up and placing it directly on the paddle “and then when you throw it up, don’t take your eyes off it, the rest will just happen”  He took a step back and watched as Anna did what he told her. It worked and Anna hit the ball across the room.

“Ayy” he smiled “That’s it love. Now” he picked up his own paddle again “It’s game on”

He picked the ball up again and threw it back to her so that she could serve it.

Harry wasn’t going easy on her, his competitive side was definitely shining as the crew all gathered around to watch.

“Come on Anna,” Clare called when the score was even. “Finish him off!”

“Absolutely not,” Harry smirked and hit the ball to Anna’s left, so hard that she missed it and it fell to the floor.

“Sorry,” he shrugged

“No you’re not” she moved around to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’re right” he placed a kiss onto her forehead “I have to go get ready now, you coming?”

“Yeah” she nodded “I’ll have a nap on that couch while you do your thing”

“You feeling ok?” he asked taking her hand and heading towards the dressing rooms

“Not wonderful, but I’m ok”

 ***

Madison Square Garden, night two. Anna was standing in the crew area near the b-stage, with Anne right next to her and they were both emotional. Anne had been crying pretty much all night and Anna couldn’t help but smile up at Harry on the stage.

“We’re going to do an extra one for you tonight” Harry said into the mic and the crowd went wild. Anna knew exactly what was coming, one of her favourites parts about this tour was watching the soundcheck every night. It reminded her of the night they met and the way that he’d smile at her from up there still gave her butterflies, and she guessed that was a good thing.

“This was the first song he knew all the words to” Anne smiled, placing her hand over her heart as he began singing Shania Twain’s ‘Still the One’ “and now look at him”

“Looks like he made it Anne,” Anna wrapped her arm around Anne’s shoulder and they both started swaying along to the music. As she watched Harry up on the stage she couldn’t help but picture him as a three or four year old sitting in the back of his mum’s car mumbling along to the song, making up his own phrases for the ones that he couldn't quite make out or understand and she felt an enormous sense of pride. She’d only known him for a few months, but she couldn’t help but see how far he’d come, from being that little boy that sang along to his mum's favourite songs in the back of the car, to standing on stage at Madison Square Garden singing not only the entirety of his album but also the songs that got him there to a sold out room with just about every person singing those lyrics back.

Harry wasn’t looking out into the crowd much but when he did, he was looking for Anna, but he couldn’t see her because of the stage lights.

Ain't nothin' better

We beat the odds together

I'm glad we didn't listen

Look at what we would be missin'

Anna stewed on those lyrics for a second. She still didn’t really know what Harry was to her, but he wouldn’t be anything if she listened to Ronnie. Imagine if she did, she would be sleeping alone in her London flat, without ever having experienced Harry on tour and that wasn’t something she wanted to think about.  In some ways, Anna was glad that it took as long as it did for their paths to cross, but it baffled her that it didn’t happen before then. Her and Harry grew up parallel to each other, in opposite towns, doing the same things with their time but Anna spent all her time with Ronnie and maybe she shouldn’t have.

The final notes of the song echoed around the arena and Anne turned and hugged Anna.

“Thank you dear,” she said trying to choke back tears “it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him this happy”

“It’s all him Anne” Anna really didn’t think that Anne should be thanking her, she hadn’t really done anything.

“No” she wiped a tear away “no love, you’ve helped.”  

“Well I’m having the best time being on tour with him” Anna smiled, and it was true, these last few weeks had been the most fun she’d had in years.

“You’re a wonderful girl Anna, your mum must be so proud”

 Anna smiled at Anne but she didn’t say anything, because if she was honest, she didn’t know if her mum was proud of  her, she was supportive as hell and allowed her to do what she thought was best, but she wasn’t sure that proud was an emotion her mother felt towards her.

“We should go backstage now dear” Anne put her hand on Anna’s shoulder while Harry introduced Kiwi, pulling her away from her thoughts. They ducked out of the booth and snuck backstage together while the crowd was distracted enough not to notice and as the made their way through the hallways it dawned on Anna that she hadn’t checked her phone all day, she couldn’t even remember where she put it but she guessed that it was somewhere in Harry’s dressing room.

“I’m going to wait near the stage dear, to meet him when he comes off” Anne said, turning down the hallway that lead to the stage area.

“I’m just going to find my phone and I’ll meet you there” Anna turned on her heel and opened the door to Harry’s dressing room.

Her phone was sitting on the table buzzing like crazy, which was odd because it was the early hours of the morning in the UK and she didn’t have anyone in the US that would be trying to contact her. She picked it up and saw thousands of twitter notifications and furrowed her brow as she unlocked her phone. No one ever tweeted her, she got the occasional mention from one of her blogger friends, but other than that it was pretty quiet, her followers mostly interacted on instagram or directly on her blog.

“No. Fuck” she breathed when she saw what it was. Pictures of her and Harry, snuggled up in Central Park. This is exactly what she was trying to avoid, it would get her attention for all of the wrong reasons and the last thing she wanted was for Harry’s fans to get the wrong idea about her. Her name was trending at #3 and she’d gained thousands of new followers across all of her social media but she refused to check the comments, she didn't want to know what people were saying about her.

Her head was spinning, she felt ill again and she had to find Harry. She pushed the door open and the hallway was crowded again which she knew meant the show was over and she maneuvered herself through the crew members without looking up.

“Whoa” an unfamiliar voice sounded and someone grabbed her shoulder “slow down, you’re going to run into someone”

Anna looked up to see Camille Rowe standing in front of her, holding onto her shoulder, a smile spread across her face.

“I haven’t met you, are you new to the crew?” she said, her tone overly sweet

“No” Anna said bluntly “Harry and I are dating.” This wasn’t entirely true, they’d been on a few dates, but nothing was official yet

“Oh” Camille seemed shocked by this and that made Anna wonder if Harry had really broken up with her like he said he did on their first date. Before she had a chance to say anything more though, Jeff stepped past them on his way to see Harry and Anna pulled him aside.

“Jeffy” she said and Camille scoffed at the nickname. “Have you seen this?”

Anna handed him her phone and his face fell the minute he saw the pictures.

“Does H know?”

“No” Anna shook her head “they must have come out while he was on stage”

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” he handed her the phone back

“Together?” Anna smiled hopefully at him.

“Let’s go then” he smiled and then pointed to Camille “How did you get back here?”

“The door” she said sarcastically.

“Joe” Jeff said the the security guard that was standing within ear shot “she’s not on the list anymore”

[punmasterkentparson]

Hooked on Feelings

kicking this out of my WIP folder ‘cause it’s been there for almost a month.

(ao3, part of the Parswoops Neighbors AU)

It’s not even halfway through January when Jeff’s life takes a turn for the worst.

It happens like this: he’s walking through the parking lot of his company office when he hears a soft, sad sound. He stops dead and turns his head slowly, listening. He hears the air conditioning units on the other side of the building, and distant drone of cars on the highway. Nothing out of the ordinary. But through that, Jeff hears the sound again.

He takes a few steps towards it, stops, and listens.

There, again.

He carefully follows the noise across the parking lot, all the way to the hedges that line the building. The noise is coming from behind them, so he has to lean over them to see the source. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. To be honest, he isn’t giving it much thought; he follows out of curiosity more than anything else.

He only realizes his mistake when he catches sight of what’s behind the bushes, curled up and shivering on the wet mulch.

“…Oh, fuck.”

–

When Jeff gets home, he puts his foundling in the bathtub, nestled among a pile of towels. The wet thing cries for an hour before going to sleep.

Jeff’s second order of business is to text Kent frantically. There’s no reply for hours.

When Kent finally does get off work, he doesn’t text to say he’s coming; he just shows up at Jeff’s front door, already grinning like a smug loon.

“Shut up,” Jeff says. Left alone to his own devices, he has lost all sense of composure. He barely managed to scrounge up dinner with a side of beer to calm his nerves. Ten minutes ago he realized he was still in his work suit and finally changed for bed, which means the rattiest clothes he owns. Meanwhile, Kent is wearing the sleek, expensive-looking active wear that’s basically his work uniform and makes him look like a fitness god. Kent looks calm and capable. Jeff feels like a helpless hot mess.

Kent comes in, still grinning. “Where is it?”

The “it” has started making noise in the bathroom again, so Jeff doesn’t even bother with an answer, just waves a hand. Kent goes right in.

As soon as Kent sees what’s in the tub, he lets out the softest gasp that Jeff has ever heard out of a grown man.

“Oh, honey,” Kent sighs, and reaches into the tub to pry a meowing, squirming little gray-and-white cat off the towels. He gathers it in his arms, heedless of its claws, and cuddles it to his chest. “Aren’t you just the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jeff can absolutely agree with that. The cat (or kitten? It’s medium-sized, at least.) is drier than when he brought it in, but it still has matted fur in odd places and a bite out of one ear. The worst thing, however, is its tail, which is hanging on by a literal thread with the tip dragging along like a sad, lifeless caterpillar. Jeff honestly had been afraid to touch it when he found the cat outside, and had gone back to his car for a reusable shopping bag. (Which he is absolutely going to throw away or burn, now.)

Kent is cooing at the gross monstrosity and gently petting its ears. The cat has settled right in, which is annoying because Kent hasn’t even done anything yet, whereas Jeff rescued the damn thing and it squirmed the whole way into the apartment. There are red lines all over his arms from overgrown claws.

“It was outside my office,” Jeff says. “I found it in a bush. It was pretty cold, though, so it didn’t really wake up and start making a racket until I got it home.”

“And you just couldn’t leave him out there, huh?”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“Magical cat-owner sense,” Kent replies, deadpan. “Also, I checked when I picked him up just now. He’s got massive cat balls.”

Jeff looks to the heavens for deliverance. “Look, obviously I don’t know a damn thing about cats. Can you take it for the night? I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon and take it to the vet, or the shelter, or whatever. Or, hell, you can keep it if you want.”

Kent’s shit-eating grin doesn’t bode well for Jeff. “Bro, I’ve got a house cat with a delicate constitution in my apartment. She’s vaccinated and shit, but who knows if this guy has fleas or ringworm or something. When I go home, I’m not even gonna touch anything until I’ve dumped all my clothes in the wash.”

“Ringworm? Fleas?” Jeff feels ill.

“Well, I take it back on the fleas,” Kent says, his fingers carefully searching through the cat’s fur. “I don’t see any flea dirt, so you’re probably in the clear. Still, better safe than sorry, those suckers are a pain in the ass to get rid of.”

This is officially the worst day of Jeff’s life. He is never going to do a good deed ever again. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck with a possibly flea and worm-infested cat for the night?”

Kent’s smile quirks in a way that’s almost fond. “I’ll hook you up with some cat food, and the name of Kit’s vet. They open at eight, so if you take some time off in the morning, you can probably take him in right away.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to shower?”

Kent straight-up laughs, the dick. He has to see that Jeff is losing his shit. “Chill, bro. You can use mine. I’ll give you a key, you can just come right in whenever.”

So that’s that, apparently. Kent puts the cat back in Jeff’s bathtub—which Jeff definitely needs to sanitize the hell out of now, Christ, fuck everything—and leads Jeff upstairs. Before going into his apartment, Kent strips off his sweatshirt and shoes, and the moment they’re in the door he starts pulling off the rest of his clothes, too.

Despite knowing why Kent is getting naked, Jeff feels himself getting warm under the collar. And everywhere else. “Um.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Kent says as he pulls down his shorts and then shimmies out of his leggings. His ass is like marble and watching it move is making Jeff’s stomach flip. For better or worse, Kent is wearing skin-tight briefs underneath. “I’ll get the cat food, hold on.” Kit chooses that moment to run up, but Kent hops backwards, saying, “No, Kit—baby, just give daddy a sec, okay?” Then he scampers off to his bathroom, leaving a confused cat standing near Jeff, who hasn’t moved from the door except to close it behind him.

Kit sits on the floor and regards him.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t mind me.”

Kit gives him a slow blink and a tail twitch. From Kent’s bathroom comes the sound of rummaging, and then Kent emerges wearing only a towel. He’s dry, so clearly he didn’t wash off, he just…stripped.

“Aren’t you going a little overboard?” Jeff asks. His heart feels like a locomotive picking up steam.

“Nope,” Kent replies, and disappears into the bedroom. He doesn’t close the door, so Jeff has to pretend he doesn’t see the towel getting flung onto the bed, or a flash of Kent’s bare ass as he crosses the room to his closet.

“God, I hate you, you sexy motherfucker,” Jeff mutters under his breath.

Kent comes out a few minutes later, wearing sweatpants and a clean hoodie over a ratty t-shirt. He’s got his key ring in one hand and is twisting something off it. “Here. Spare house key.” He holds it out to Jeff, who takes it.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Kent looks amused by Jeff’s befuddlement. “I sleep like a rock, so even if you come in at the asscrack of dawn, you’re not gonna wake me up.”

Waking Kent up was not the basis for Jeff’s objection. Clearly the issue of trust never crossed Kent’s mind. Jeff vows to guard the key like it’s his own deposit. “Okay. Thanks.”

After that, Kent pulls half a dozen cans of wet cat food out of his kitchen pantry and puts it in a bag for Jeff. Then he borrows Jeff’s phone and programs in the number of Kit’s vet. Jeff would chirp him for having the number memorized, if he wasn’t still vaguely haunted by the memory of Kent breaking a glass and crying in his apartment when Kit was sick.

Too soon, Jeff is back in his apartment, alone, with the yowls of a gross street cat echoing in his bathroom.

He groans, sighs, and heads for his kitchen to dig out a make-shift food bowl.

–

The next morning, Jeff wakes up at his usual time of five-thirty and hauls himself out of bed. The cat stopped crying at around one a.m., so that’s about when Jeff fell asleep. He feels like shit. He needs coffee, breakfast, and a shower. So, after starting the coffee maker, he grabs a towel and heads upstairs to Kent’s place.

Unlocking the door and sneaking inside when the lights are all off makes him feel like an intruder. He bumps into a few things on his way to the bathroom and finds out that Kent’s shower is noisy as hell. When he comes out ten minutes later, damp and wearing the clothes he arrived in, he’s amazed to see that Kent hasn’t stirred. The door to Kent’s bedroom is open and Jeff catches sight of him passed out under the layers of bed sheets.

Jeff sneaks back to his apartment. The mangy monster in his bathroom is awake and starting to meow.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get your damn breakfast,” he tells it when he goes in to retrieve its bowl. By the time he has fed the creature and gotten coffee for himself, it’s nearly six-thirty. How does time go so fast?!

“Yeah, hi,” he says when he calls his department head. “Sorry, Ted, I know it’s early—Just needed to let you know I’ll be late getting in today. …Maybe noon? Yes, of course. I’ll email it to you, and look over your notes when I come in. …No, nothing like that. Just a little situation at home. Yeah, see you. Thanks.”

Thank god for Jeff’s infamous work ethic. He hasn’t taken unplanned time off in almost a year. People will notice he’s gone, but nobody will side-eye him for it.

It’s not until Jeff has googled the address of Kent’s vet, gotten dressed, and mentally prepared himself to head out that he realizes something vital: he has no fucking idea how he’s going to transport the furry goblin from his apartment to his car.

“Jesus H Christ.”

Last night, when Jeff wrapped it up in the cloth shopping bag, the cat had been too cold and hungry to protest. Now, having warmed up and slept and eaten, the thing is scratching at Jeff’s bathroom door and crying to be let out. Just because it didn’t scratch Kent up last night doesn’t mean it won’t tear into Jeff if he tries to move it somewhere this morning.

He digs a jean jacket and a pair of thick winter gloves out of his closet for protection. Then he steels himself for disaster and opens the bathroom door a crack to squeeze inside.

The cat doesn’t escape. Instead, it flees to the other side of the small bathroom, hiding behind the toilet and continuing to yell.

“Okay, buddy,” Jeff says. “Come quietly and please don’t send me to the hospital, yeah?”

By some miracle, Jeff gets the cat in the bag, out to his car, and halfway across town to the vet’s. He arrives about five minutes after they open, so they’re able to see him immediately. With far more visible comfort than Jeff had displayed carrying the cat in, the vet carefully takes the animal out and examines it.

“We’ll need to run some tests for parasites,” she says. “I’d also recommend an FiV test.”

“FiV?”

“Feline HIV.”

Jeff nods. “Okay. Yeah.”

“As for the tail,” she adds, carefully touching the sad, stringy thing with gloved hands, “I probably don’t have to tell you that it needs to be amputated.”

“I figured. How much will all that cost?”

She gives him a rough estimate. Jeff sighs and says, “Sure. Let’s do all the things you said.”

The tests come back in twenty minutes. It turns out that the cat does not have fleas, but it does have intestinal parasites that will require twice-a-day meds for the next week. They still need to take care of the tail, so after getting the results and paying for it all at the front desk, Jeff leaves, heading home for a change of clothes before he goes to work.

Around noon, Kent texts him.

just got up, how’s ur cat?

Jeff sighs, puts down his sandwich, and sends back,

Not my cat, and it has intestinal parasites. They’re gonna amputate the tail. I have to go back tonight to pick the cat up.

Kent sends a smilie face.

Jeff leaves work at his usual time and drives to the vet. He hadn’t told anyone at his office the reason for his morning lateness. He doesn’t want to spend a week fielding inquiries about the cat’s condition.

The cat is subdued from its experience at the vet. It has seventy-five percent less tail, the end of which is wrapped up in bandages that the cat is not allowed to lick or bite under any circumstances. A Victorian-style plastic collar has been included for the purpose of preventing this. Jeff goes home with a bag of medications, a cat carrier, and a cat brush. He’d been strongly advised to brush the cat out and get rid of the matting as soon as possible, before the clumps of fur become hazardous to the cat’s health or invite—of course—fleas.

Once home, Jeff gets the cat settled in his bathtub, giving it dinner and a bowl of water. He also brings in a few more hand towels for extra comfort, because he’s animal-inept but he’s not heartless. Now that the worst of the situation has been dealt with, he can take a moment to sit on the edge of the tub and just observe.

It’s not an ugly cat, he decides. It won’t be winning any beauty contests, not with that knobby tail stub and half-bitten ear, but its fur markings are okay. He dares to pat the cat while it eats. It ignores him.

Five minutes later, Kent shows up. “How’s the patient?” he asks, still standing at Jeff’s front door.

“You didn’t even call to see if I was home. Have you seriously been listening for me, just so you could see this damn cat?” Jeff demands.

Kent doesn’t deny it; he just waits for Jeff to roll his eyes and show him to the bathroom.

“I have two different types of meds I have to make it eat twice a day this week,” Jeff bemoans while Kent sits on the edge of the tub and coos over the cat. “I think they’re pills. How do you make cats eat pills?”

“Mix them with the food,” Kent replies. “Or find a treat the cat really loves and put it in that.”

Jeff nods. “I have to brush it out, too, apparently.” He’s a little scared to do it. What if he does it wrong and the cat bites him? What if he pulls out fur or skin?

His fear must show on his face because Kent just smiles, shakes his head, and says, “I can show you. D’you have a brush?”

And it turns out that brushes are some kind of cat cheat code. Within minutes, Kent has the cat flopped out in the tub and purring like a motor while he carefully scrapes through a thick matt near its tail. “It just takes patience,” he says. “You wanna give it a shot?”

Jeff does not. Kent gives him the brush anyway. Jeff switches spots with Kent at the tub and tries to mimic his movements with the brush. He knows he’s a bit stiff, but he’s still worried that he’s one fuckup away from a bleeding hand.

Kent, however, settles down on the tile to watch. “It’s just a cat,” he says, the lit to his voice definitely teasing. “Not a bomb. If you relax, the cat will relax.”

Jeff shakes his head. “I suck at handling animals, Parse. It’s just fact.”

Chuckling, Kent gives him a light smack on the thigh. “Good thing you’re cute, then.”

Jeff’s heart skips a beat. Kent has averted his gaze to the floor. There might be a blush on his cheeks, but Jeff doesn’t know what it means—if it’s, ‘oops, I said too much,’ or ‘oops, no homo.’ He likes Kent too much to risk being wrong. “I really doubt the cat cares,” he replies, and after the silence stretches a few safe seconds, he adds, “Thanks for helping me with this.”

Kent’s cheeks are still rosy when he looks up and grins. “No problem, man. Trust me, you’ve got this.”

–

The week drags on and Jeff doesn’t feel like he’s ‘got this’. He keeps the cat in his bathroom out of paranoia of parasites and having all his furniture clawed up while he’s gone. (After all, his apartment is not remotely cat-proofed.) Not that it matters. For the first week, he comes home daily to find shredded bath towels and teeth marks on the cabinet door corners and puddles of urine next to a perfectly good litter box that Kent helps him buy. He goes through endless paper towels and does a shit-ton of laundry and learns to dab hot sauce on anything the cat might deem edible.

He scoops so. Much. Cat poop.

But life continues, taking him to work and home again and back, and somehow he manages to feed, water, and medicate the cat without causing it any harm. He even brushes out all the matted fur, leaving bald spots and dander. Then, once the parasites are gone and the tail is healed up, he takes the cat back to the vet to be neutered. The cat strongly objects to the return of the plastic collar. Jeff figures it’s just as well he’s keeping the cat in his bathroom, since he can’t imagine what the cat might knock over with its cone head.

This means he also continues showering at Kent’s place. It feels weird. In part because he uses Kent’s shampoo since it’s easier than bringing his own every time—and because Kent insisted—but also because catching glimpses of Kent still asleep in his bed makes Jeff feel domestic. Like he actually lives with Kent, instead of just borrowing his bathroom. “Good thing you’re cute, then,” keeps echoing in his head like a broken record.

Dealing with the cat is bad enough, so Jeff pushes those heart-pang feelings to the back of his mind until he can ignore the fact that he has them.

The weekend following the cat’s neutering, there’s another hockey game with the league—and this time it’s against another team. A co-ed club from a community college the next city over takes the bus into Vegas, gear and sticks and all.

Jeff really enjoys playing that night. There’s an acute sense of competition, of “us versus them,” and although there are no refs to call penalties and therefore a standing agreement that they all play fair, Jeff wouldn’t say they’re all necessarily polite. Nobody is hooking or tripping or cross-checking, but they’re also not above bodily shoving each other out of the way to get at the puck.

The co-ed team wins.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?!” Rabs hollers at them as they celebrate, which gets him some laughter from both teams and a brazen middle finger from one of the college kids.

“I’m surprised your knee held out two full periods, old man!” yells back a girl who’s probably barely eighteen, and she high-fives her teammates when the beer league guys just laugh at Rabs.

Half the beer league and most of the college kids go out for drinks after. As they commandeer a couple of tables, Bommer yells over the fuss, “If I catch any of you kids drinking underage or using a fake I.D., I’ll arrest your ass. Got it?” Then he heads for the bar.

One of the college kids leans close to Jeff. “He’s not serious, is he?”

Jeff knows for a fact that Bommer isn’t, because Bommer arrests drug dealers and vandals and rapists but not idiot college kids trying to sneak a beer—he just lectures them into next week. But Jeff looks the college kid dead in the eye and lies, “He once arrested his own daughter.”

It’s really fun to watch that little story get passed around in hushed whispers.

It’s also surprisingly fun to hang out with the college kids. Sure, they’re obnoxiously cocky and self-assured, but it’s just a product of their age. They chat about school, careers, reality TV, celeb gossip—and hockey, of course hockey. Some of the college kids are shooting for the big leagues, others content to leave hockey on the sidelines while they pursue other dreams. The college kids who are legal get drunk faster than the league guys. Most of them proceed to make fools of themselves, while their underage friends take pictures and videos to blackmail them with later.

It’s good. Kent is two seats down, close enough for Jeff to yell-talk at him but far enough away that after Jeff’s hands won’t get stupid after he’s had a few beers. Kent is loose and relaxed tonight, his smiles a dime a dozen, and every time Jeff catches one directed at him, his stomach swoops.

The college kids nearby manage to drag him into a conversation about Survivor, and then Lost. This leads to him getting into an argument with two of the girls about which season of Lost was the best (Jeff says the first, they’re adamant it’s the last). One of the girls is laughing a little too much at his lame-ass jokes and almost falling over her friend as she leans in to yell over the music. At one point, she catches herself from swaying with a hand on Jeff’s thigh and she leaves it there, and—okay, Jeff knows what this is.

He laughs and says, “I think you’ve had enough for the evening, huh?” He takes her hand off his leg and politely pushes it back to her. She’s drunk enough that her embarrassment just makes her laugh, and her friends laugh, too.

“Are you gay?” asks the drunk girl. It’s not an accusation, just a loose tongue brought on by alcohol. “’Cause, like, that’s cool, just I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable, you know?”

“I am, actually,” Jeff says, and winks. “But even if I wasn’t, you’re a little young for me, honey.”

“But college boys are so lame!” the drunk girl hollers, and a couple of the guys around her immediately jump in to refute this assertion.

The conversations splinter and roll on. Jeff’s attention shifts away from the college kids and back to his own friends, where a few seats are already empty due to the guys in question having babysitters to relieve, spouses to see, or weekend shifts to get ready for. Kent, for once, isn’t heading home early, although he does keep checking his phone.

When he catches Jeff looking, he grins and shows him a livestream feed of his living room. In it, Kit is curled up on the sofa.

“That’s adorable,” Jeff says, and he really means it.

Kent grins and takes his phone back. “What about your monster?”

Jeff is not thankful for the reminder. “I fed him and made him take his pills before I left. I also scooped his gross litter box and changed the towels in the tub. He won’t stop peeing on them,” he complains.

Mike leans in. “Swoops, are you holding a kid hostage in your bathroom?”

Kent’s grin takes on epic proportions. “Jeff got a cat.”

“I did not get a cat,” Jeff corrects. “I found a dirty stray in a bush outside my office, and now it lives in my bathroom. I haven’t showered in my own apartment in weeks.”

Mike makes a point of sniffing Jeff until Jeff shoves him away. “Funny, you don’t smell any worse than usual.”

“Haha, you’re hilarious. I’m showering—somewhere else.” Jeff catches himself before he confesses to both having Kent’s apartment key and free access to his shower. Mike looks skeptical, so Jeff adds, “At a neighbor’s.”

“Generous neighbor,” Mike says, at exactly the same time as Kent stands up and says, “Last round, any takers? I mean orders, you moochers, I’m not paying!” All the previous requests for booze are waived off, which make Jeff laugh.

Once Kent is gone, Mike raises an eyebrow at him and says, “Kent lives in your building, doesn’t he?”

“Sure does,” Jeff replies, and chugs half his beer to avoid furthering that line of inquiry.

Mercifully, Mike lets it go, and they talk about other things. Until Mike is checking over his shoulder at the bar and lets out a low whistle. “Well, that’s ballsy.”

Jeff knows he shouldn’t look. He looks.

Kent is leaning on the bar, drink in hand, talking to one of the college guys. They must have met up at the bar, getting drinks at the same time. Except they’re standing close, and College Boy has a hand on Kent’s arm, and as Jeff watches, College Boy leans in to say something into Kent’s ear. Something that makes Kent laugh.

College Boy is flirting and Kent…doesn’t mind.

Jeff turns back around. He feels like his face is on fire. Guess that answers the question of homo or no homo, he thinks, mildly hysterical.

Next to him, Mike says, “The kid’s got balls going for Parson, I’ll give him that. He’s a little on the young side.”

“They’re both adults,” Jeff replies, mouth on autopilot. Now that the surprise is wearing off, he’s starting to simmer with resentment. How the fuck is a college kid managing the balls to flirt with Kent when Jeff has been sitting on his own hands since fall?

Mike snorts, and takes another look back over his shoulder. “Well, you can chill. Parson’s coming back.”

A few seconds later, Kent drops into his seat and then asks, utterly sans segue, “If Darth Vader and Voldemort faced off, who would win?”

“Voldemort,” says Mike without hesitation.

Kent gestures so hard with his free hand that he almost spills his drink in the other. “That’s what I said!” he exclaims, and then shouts down the table, “Because you can’t use the force if you’re Avada Kedavera’d to death, Peter!”

Jeff looks down the table and recognizes “Peter” as the flirt. He’d been on the brink of voting for Vader, just to be contrary, but now the retort dies in his throat.

Mike says, “I was thinking more along the lines that he’d be faster. Is magic even legal during a game?”

Peter is shaking his head. “If it’s not legal in Quidditch, it’s not legal in hockey.”

“Do wizards even have hockey?” asks a girl next to Peter.

“Darth Vader probably sucks at hockey,” Kent says. “He grew up on a freaking desert planet, come on.”

Somehow, the argument continues for another half hour. Jeff thinks the only reason they eventually leave is because the bar makes its last call, and the fact that all the college kids still have to get to their motel.

Outside the bar, while they wait for taxis, Jeff sees Peter sidle up to Kent again and murmur into his ear. Kent giggles, shakes his head, and gently pushes Peter away towards his friends, who pull him towards a cab. Jeff shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does.

Kent catches Jeff watching. Jeff instantly looks away.

After Peter is gone, Kent joins Jeff on the sidewalk. “That bother you?”

Jeff’s heart jack-knifes in his chest. “No,” he manages. “Why—why would it bother me?” As smooth as a rockslide. Fantastic.

Kent shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. “I dunno. Some guys have a thing about it. And, you know, I never mentioned I’m bi, so…” Another shrug.

Oh. Oh. They’re having a totally different conversation than Jeff thought. He’s not being called out on his pining; Kent thinks Jeff might be a shade homophobic. Clearly he didn’t catch the exchange Jeff had with that college girl in the bar. He needs a moment to re-orient himself. Then he blurts, “I’m super gay. Just—unbelievably gay. My horoscope sign is a rainbow unicorn.”

Kent doubles over laughing. When he can speak again, he wheezes, “Wow. Okay. Crisis averted. Jesus, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

“It was definitely not,” Jeff argues. “I’ve said way funnier.”

“Way dumber, too.”

“You’ve said way dumber, today.”

Kent laughs again and slings an arm around Jeff. It feels hot and strong and Jeff’s whole body is tingling. Kent leans in and declares, grinning, “Yeah, but I’m drunk, ripped, and hot. Nobody gives a shit what I say.”

Jeff picks a perfect time to glance sideways and drop his gaze to Kent’s mouth. Christ, it looks wet and soft.

“See, you’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

“Am too,” Jeff retorts, strained, and drags his gaze back up. There’s a shadow on Kent’s jaw, the blond beard just dark enough to betray a missed morning shave, and Jeff is having the insane urge to just lean in and find out what that feels like under his tongue.

Rabs startles him half to death by yelling, “We got you guys a cab, get in!”

They’re sharing with Cash, which is a blessing and a curse. Jeff gets squished between them, and when Cash starts pulling up pics of his kids that his babysitter sent, Kent leans over to see. He smells like beer and fried cheese and hours-old cologne, and his warm, solid body is plastered all up along Jeff’s side. Kent puts his arm back around Jeff and it feels so good to be tucked against him that Jeff’s chest feels like it’s caving in with the force of his heartache.

God, how he wants.

Kent’s and his apartment comes first. They clamor out and wave after the disappearing taxi until it’s gone. Then they head into the building, where they find an Out Of Order sign on the elevator.

“Goddammit,” Jeff grumbles. “I hate taking the stairs. So much fucking exercise.”

Kent grabs his hand and tugs him towards the exit door. “It’s just five flights. Come on, you baby.”

“I’ve got four flights to climb,” Jeff complains, though he’s mostly distracted by the firm surety of Kent’s grip to really protest. “Why are you dragging me up to your floor?”

Kent holds his hand up the whole three flights. Jeff’s heart is pounding by the time they reach Kent’s apartment. He knows it’s not from the climb.

“You wanna come in for a bit?” Kent asks. “Say hi to Kit?” His smile is lopsided and so openly fond that Jeff knows, intuitively and like a vise on his ribs, that if he says ‘yes’ to that offer, he might actually get what he’s longing for.

He didn’t know until now that he’s a coward.

“I gotta check on the monster,” he says, carefully letting go of Kent’s hand. “You know, food and shit.”

“Right, right.” Kent’s hands go into his pockets, out of reach. Jeff wants them back in his more than he can say; which is probably why he doesn’t.

“Night, Parser.”

“Night, Jeff.”

It’s a lonely walk up to his apartment. As soon as he’s inside, he clenches his jaw, then his fists, and after a second of internally fuming, he kicks the door. “Goddammit!” he hisses. “Fuck. Fuck me.”

From his bathroom, the stray cat yowls. Jeff waits until he has taken a few calming breaths before going to feed it.

He finds broken glass and the stench of cologne. The cat is cowering in a corner to hide from the smell.

“I hate you,” Jeff groans, and retreats to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.

–

Nothing changes between Jeff and Kent. Jeff remembers everything from that night and he knows Kent remembers everything too, but nothing about their friendship changes. Jeff wouldn’t have minded that if he didn’t get the feeling he’d blown his chance for more.

At the next hockey game, there are two scouts in the stands, and Kent chats with them both. He also chats with the scouts who show up to the game after that.

It’s impossible for the rest of the guys to miss.

“They’re like flies on shit all of a sudden,” Rabs says after a day of three scouts. “Parser, you getting any offers?”

“Did you just call me dogshit?” Kent demands, and then shrugs noncommittally. “Not really offers, just talks.”

“Yeah, but. You gonna sign, if you get something good?”

And Kent replies to that like he always does—laughs it off, shakes his head, says something about how nobody’s really looking to sign him, they’re just checking him off a list of known free agents. None of it means anything.

Jeff believes that, right up until he sees the contracts.

It’s by accident; he goes into Kent’s apartment at the ass-crack of dawn, like always, ready to shower. He finds Kent passed out on the sofa. Jeff pauses in the living room, curious, because Kent is wearing his sleeping clothes but clearly drifted off before he made it to bed. The lamp next to him is still on.

What catches Jeff’s eye are the contracts spilled out over Kent’s coffee table. There are three, as far as he can tell, and each one has a piece of notepaper next to it covered in notes.

It’s what Jeff wanted for Kent, and what Kent has worked for. But it makes Jeff feel so sick at heart that he almost leaves without his shower. Almost.

Kent is awake when Jeff comes out of the bathroom, damp and clean. The contracts are stacked up, not gone. Kent is sitting upright on the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

“Good offers?” Jeff asks, like a jackass, because if Kent hasn’t ever mentioned it before then it’s obviously not something he wanted to discuss.

Kent sighs, sounding exhausted, and shrugs. “Bunch of zeroes. No-trade clauses, two- and three-year deals. So. Objectively, sure.”

Jesus. That’s the real deal. “Are you going to sign?”

Kent sighs again. “I don’t fucking know, Jeff.”

That’s not a “no.”

Jeff leaves and doesn’t bring it up again. He doesn’t mention it to the guys, not even Mike. Kent acts like it didn’t happen, still coming to games and texting Jeff at work and dropping by Jeff’s apartment to visit the monster cat that still lives in Jeff’s bathroom. The cat has monopolized the space for almost two months, now, because Jeff is too afraid of the potential destruction to let it wander free.

“I can help you cat-proof your place, you know,” Kent offers—again—one night when he comes over. He’s crammed into the bathroom with Jeff and the cat. Somehow, Kent has managed to entrance the cat with just a shoelace, dangling it and pulling it along the tiles and laughing when the cat tries and fails to pounce on it. “You can’t keep him in your bathroom forever. Have you even named him?”

Jeff calls the cat “the monster” or “Monster,” but Kent continues to insist that Jeff pick something better. Kent also brings new cat toys and treats every week, like the animal is a nephew he’s trying to spoil. Jeff has repeatedly asked Kent if he wants to keep the cat, but Kent keeps saying no. Jeff gets the impression that Kent expects him to keep Monster, so Kent can continue to dote on it.

Honestly, Jeff has thought about it. But he keeps coming to the conclusion that it’s not in the cards. He likes his life how it is and he doesn’t want the complication. So he says, “It doesn’t matter what I name him. The new owner will probably change it. I’ve got someone at the office who’s seen pics and she says she’s interested.”

Kent goes still. “Wait, you’re seriously giving him away?”

Jeff internally squirms under Kent’s wide-eyed look of betrayal, turning his gaze to Monster instead. “I’m not a cat person, Parse, I told you. It was okay playing the good Samaritan for a bit, but this isn’t me. I can’t see myself having a cat long-term.”

“Oh.” Kent is quiet for a long moment. Monster jumps on the shoelace and tugs it away; Kent doesn’t resist. “I guess you should do what’s best for you.”

“That’s all it is, Parse. I’m just not a cat person.”

Soon after that conversation, Kent leaves. He smiles as he goes, acting casual, but there’s a shadow in his eyes like something’s gone wrong. And, look, Jeff doesn’t always catch on quick, but he’s not an idiot. Even if he’s not sure what specific sentence was the wrong one, he knows he fucked up somehow. Rather than go upstairs and ask Kent to clarify, however, he just curses himself and kicks his door. Again. It’s becoming a pattern.

Why is he such a coward when it comes to Kent? Even back when Kent was a noisy menace, the only time Jeff didn’t go upstairs to confront him about it was the one time it had sounded like Kent really needed company. Now that he knows Kent personally, would he do differently? He hopes so. But, god—he also never pegged himself as a guy who’d avoid so many important conversations just because he was afraid of the outcome, even a potentially good one. He’d always thought that if he ever cared about someone like he cares about Kent, he’d bare his heart and put it all on the line.

He never expected to find himself approaching Valentine’s Day wondering if Kent was already finding someone else.

It’s desperation for reassurance, not courage, that makes him text Kent about coming over for pizza and beer.

“Dude, about time you had me over again,” Kent says when he arrives.

Jeff rolls his eyes and waves him in. “The fuck do you mean ‘about time,’ you’ve been over here doting on the cat every day.”

“Your cat is better looking, is why,” Kent replies. He heads for the sofa, only to stop short when he sees Monster curled up on it.

“Oh, yeah,” Jeff says. “My co-worker is picking him up tomorrow. I thought I’d give him a night to live it up before he moves out. How much damage can he do, right?”

Kent snorts. The look on his face is one of jumbled emotions, confusion and fondness and resignation.

“You can move him,” Jeff says. “He’s pretty chill suddenly, doesn’t really care if you pick him up or touch his feet and shit. Which is a goddamn turnaround, considering how nuts he always acted in the bathroom.”

“He just needed to feel at home, that’s all.” Kent crouches by Monster and pets him until he purrs and shows his belly. “Nobody feels at home in just a bathroom.”

Jeff feels awkward and he’s not sure why. “You know you could still keep him, if you really wanted. I’ll tell my co-worker there was a change of plans. She’ll understand.” She won’t. But Jeff would face Sarah’s sour disappointment for a year if it meant keeping Kent happy.

Except the offer just makes Kent look more unhappy. “No, it’s—fine. You promised.” Kent sits on the sofa arm, still petting Monster. “Come on, gimme pizza.”

Kent acts normally from then on, talking shit through the movie and criticizing Jeff’s choice in beer. But there’s a sadness weighing on him that comes out in the silences, and makes his fingers drift to Monster’s fur whenever he’s lost in thought. Monster attaches himself to Kent, nuzzling and purring, like he thinks Kent needs it.

Jeff hates it because it feels like his fault. Which it can’t be, because if Kent won’t keep the cat and Jeff can’t, there’s nothing else to fucking do.

The night concludes as it always does, with Kent smiling and giving him a half-hug before going home, and Jeff still sitting on a crush that he hasn’t yet dared to air out. In the living room, Monster is stalking the empty pizza boxes. When Jeff walks over and shoos him away from a stray piece of crust, Monster meows indignantly.

“You’re a weird-ass cat, you know that?” Jeff grumbles, and wiggles the boxes until Monster hops out.

Jeff crosses his fingers for no overnight disasters and goes to bed early. He wakes up on Sunday morning to find Monster sprawled out on his bed, whiskers twitching in his sleep. Jeff stares for a while. Monster still isn’t a beauty; he’s got half an ear on one side, almost no tail, and even without his balls he has a throaty, tomcat yowl. All of these disclaimers were made clear to Sarah before she agreed to take him. Jeff supposes that if you’re into cats, the little imperfections don’t matter.

Monster blinks awake and sees Jeff already looking. Without prompt, Monster starts to purr.

“You’re a terrible cat,” Jeff tells him. “I can’t wait until you’re gone and I can have my own life again.”

Monster closes his eyes and purrs louder.

“Shut up.” Jeff gets out of bed. Monster, sensing breakfast, follows. Once there’s food in front of Monster, Jeff escapes to his bathroom. He gets his towel and clothes and is halfway out his door before he remembers that he doesn’t need Kent’s shower anymore.

Well. That’s how it should be.

So he goes back to his bathroom and gets in his own shower for the first time in over a month. It feels strange. Kent’s shower setup had been the apartment’s standard, but Jeff’s is custom, and it’s like he’s completely forgotten how to use his own showerhead. He keeps twisting the knobs wrong, and twice he misplaces his shampoo. When he gets out, he shaves over the sink and frowns at himself in the mirror.

He takes Monster—and all of Monster’s accumulated shit—to his co-worker’s house that afternoon. Sarah takes Monster out of his carrier right away and coos over him. Monster squirms.

“He needs time getting used to new places,” Jeff says. “And new people.” Even as he says it, it doesn’t feel true. Monster had settled into Jeff’s bathroom and then his apartment in no time flat. And although Monster had been a matted, parasite-infested wreck when he first met Kent, he’d done nothing but knead and purr.

Sarah closes the door behind Jeff and puts Monster down. Monster slinks up to the first bit of furniture he can find—a bookshelf—and cautiously sniffs it. “We’ll make it work,” Sarah says.

Jeff nods. “Just leave him alone and keep feeding him, he loves food. He doesn’t care what happens as long as there’s food in front of him. Oh, and play with him. He’s got a ton of cat toys, courtesy of my neighbor, although for some reason he likes dumb stuff like shoelaces and towels.”

Sarah gives him a look. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him? You sound attached.”

Jeff watches Monster take a slow swat at a book and ignores the tightness in his chest. “I’m not a cat person.”

Sarah nods. “Well, okay. Do you want to come into the kitchen, have a drink? I’ve got coke, coffee, or I can make tea. Give you a little more time to say goodbye to your cat?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

And just like that, Jeff is out the front door and back in his car, driving home. Alone.

–

Without Monster around, Kent has no concrete reason to drop by all the time, so he mostly stops. They don’t drift apart—they keep texting, and sometimes bump into each other in the elevator. But Jeff doesn’t fool himself; it’s not the same. He spends the next week feeling like there’s a hole in his life, and he’s self-aware enough to know that the hole is Kent-shaped. Their conversations aren’t as frequent and lack the spark they used to.

At the next hockey game, Kent doesn’t make a beeline for him the second he steps on the ice. There’s a scout waiting for Kent when the game is done, and he spends a long time talking with the guy—the longest he’s talked with any of them yet. He’s actually late to arrive at the bar, and when he takes a seat on the other end of the table from Jeff, it feels on purpose, not by chance.

Jeff is starting to feel like he gave away Kent along with Monster.

Are you mad at me? he sends from his work desk on Thursday, when he should be typing up a report. ‘Cause I didn’t keep the cat?

Kent’s reply comes instantly. And keeps coming.

Kent: what?! no!! of course not. i guess i just miss him. i got used to him being around but i’m not mad at YOU for not keeping him. its your life. and i really believe you should only get a pet if ur 110% committed. you shouldn’t make a commitment if you’re not able to, u know?

Me: Exactly. I just want what’s best for Monster.

Kent: i know. i’m never gonna be mad at u for doing what u gotta do, k? i’ll get over it.

Jeff should put his phone down and get back to work. But he feels like they’re finally communicating after almost two weeks of being lukewarm, and he’ll be hard-pressed to find this level of openness again. So he sends,

Me: You know you’re my best friend, right?

Kent’s icon shows that he’s typing for a long time; either preparing to send a wall of text, or second-guessing himself dozens of times. Neither bodes well.

Kent: i didn’t, actually. but ur mine, too.

Fuck, Jeff will die happy just from this.

Me: Right. So I want you to know that you’ll still be my best friend if you play in the NHL. Or the AHL. Or if you move to Russia and join the KHL. Or turn them all down and play in the beer league the rest of your life. You’re my best friend and nothing changes that.

Another long pause.

Kent: thanks, man.

It’s not much, but Jeff smiles in relief, anyway.

–

On Friday, as Jeff is getting ready to leave work, Sarah comes up to him. She’s been showing Jeff and everyone else in the office photos of Monster—re-named Stuart—since the day she brought him home. Jeff expects more of the same today, and mentally prepares an excuse to leave after viewing no more than five pictures.

He’s confused when, instead of pulling out her phone, Sarah asks, “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“No?” Jeff replies, then freezes when he remembers that tomorrow is February 14th, Valentine’s Day. Awkwardly, he says, “I’m, uh, flattered, but—”

“What?” Sarah blinks, and then her eyes go wide. “Oh—god, no! Jeff, I have a girlfriend.”

“…Oh.” Jeff takes a moment to mentally re-evaluate everything he knows about Sarah. He feels stupid for assuming that the woman in all her photos was her sister.

“Yeah,” Sarah says, like she can hear what he’s thinking. “Which is why—god, I feel terrible about this, but I can’t keep Stuart. My girlfriend is allergic. I mean really allergic.” She sighs. “We knew she had allergies, but they’ve never been so bad. She can’t come over to my place at all.”

“Oh,” Jeff repeats. “I can, uh, pick him up this evening? If you want?”

Sarah looks relieved enough that she might hug him. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry. You were right, Stuart is a sweetheart once he warms up to you, and Jenna and I love him so much. But… well, we’d really rather just get a hypoallergenic cat than install special filters all over the house and do laundry three times a week.”

Although Jeff has never had allergy issues, he finds it easy to relate to the problem of Monster giving him too much housework. “It’s fine. I was gonna leave now, but I can hang back until you’re done.”

“Thanks so much. I’ve just got to send a couple of emails and I’ll be ready to head out.”

It’s dark when they get to the parking lot. Jeff follows Sarah’s car to her house, and comes inside with her to collect all of Monster’s belongings. Monster comes right up to him and rubs against Jeff’s shins, purring and meowing.

“Aww, he missed you.”

Jeff can feel himself blushing a little, so he just shrugs and stoops to pat Monster’s head. Monster yowls and pushes his face into Jeff’s fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” Jeff mutters while Sarah stuffs the last of Monster’s toys into a bag, and then to Monster he says, “Apocalyptic allergies, huh? Nice to see you can make a nuisance of yourself wherever you go.”

Monster is noisy on the drive home, in the elevator up to Jeff’s apartment, and then even after Jeff has brought him inside and let him out. Monster prances around rubbing against all the furniture.

Jeff drops the bag of toys next to the sofa and sinks onto the cushions. Monster trots in from the next room and hops up next to him, climbing onto Jeff’s lap and meowing at him. Jeff gets a face-full of fish-scented cat breath and coughs. “I was nearly free of you,” he complains, and submits to Monster’s demands by scratching his chin. “I don’t have anyone else lined up to take you.” He thinks for a minute. “We could put up flyers, maybe. Free cat to good home. Facebook, too, I’ve got a ton of friends all over the country who are suckers for cats.”

Monster closes his eyes and settles down on Jeff’s lap while Jeff keeps scratching his chin. The warmth and weight of Monster is kind of nice, Jeff decides. And waking up to Monster that one morning was the least lonely he’s felt at five a.m. in…well, a while.

“One of the guys might take you,” he continues, still brainstorming aloud. “Cash’s kids have been bugging him for a pet. You’d be good with kids, right? You’re chill. And you don’t have much of a tail to pull or step on.”

Monster begins to purr. It’s a deep, guttural rumble that seems to seep into Jeff’s bones.

“Oh, Christ, stop. I’m not keeping you, you goddamn noisy, ugly cat. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve been from start to finish? You destroyed my bathroom. You’d probably destroy my apartment. And you’re expensive, fuck, I’ve dropped so much cash on you. You had parasites, remember? Then the surgery for your tail, plus your balls, and if I keep you, I just know Parser is gonna talk me into microchipping you ‘cause he’s paranoid like that.”

He sighs, his fingers slowing. Monster tucks his face into his paws, so Jeff strokes his fur instead. Monster keeps purring. “I hate you, Monster. So much.”

He can’t fucking believe he’s considering this.

–

The next morning, Jeff wakes up to Monster curled up at his side.

“Manipulative little shit,” he accuses, to which Monster mumble-meows and bats at Jeff’s face until he gets up.

Jeff feeds Monster in the kitchen. While Monster noisily eats a can of soggy Friskies cat food, Jeff starts the coffee pot and contemplates…everything. Last night he’d gone to bed without making a firm decision about Monster. In the cold darkness of the morning, he doesn’t feel any surer. He’s still not a cat person. The whole experience of feeling outrageously sentimental about a pet is still something he can’t fully relate to. Even Monster, with his soft fur and adoring slow-blinks and motorboat purr, is still an alien entity whom Jeff regards with more confusion than unconditional love.

But as he watches Monster chomp down a fat piece of tuna, Jeff has to admit that he has grown attached.

He can’t fucking believe he’s resigning himself to this.

Kent will be ecstatic.

Kent also might sign an NHL contract and move across the country, rarely seen again, and it won’t matter that Jeff has finally given in and adopted Kent’s favorite ratty cat. Anything Jeff could have said, anything he might have wanted, will be lost in the face of Kent’s new whirlwind career.

A man can only be a coward for so long.

Fuck it, Jeff decides. If he can’t find the courage to do this shit on Valentine’s Day at the ass-crack of dawn when he has just decided to keep an utter wreck of a stray cat, he never will.

He puts on his fuzziest slippers and warmest sweatshirt and ventures upstairs. With his heart pounding in his chest, he knocks on Kent’s door.

Eventually, it opens. “Fuck, Jeff, it’s like six o’clock,” Kent complains when he answers. He’s wearing sweatpants and no shirt and he’s got terrible bedhead, plus a couple creases in his face from his pillow. He looks like he has every morning that Jeff has snuck by him sleeping in bed.

By now, Jeff’s urge to wrap himself around Kent and bury his face in Kent’s neck is mostly under control. “Just let me say this before I chicken out,” Jeff replies, and that gets him Kent’s attention. He takes a fortifying breath and says, “I like you.” Not the most eloquent, but in his defense, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

Kent blinks. He definitely hasn’t had coffee yet, either. “I like you, too?”

“No, Parser, I like you. Do you remember when I first brought Monster back from the vet, and we were sitting in my bathroom brushing him and I said that I sucked at animals, and you said it was a good thing I’m cute? I’ve been thinking about that non-stop ever since.”

Kent blinks again. “That was two months ago.”

“I know. But I’ve been thinking about it because it was the first time I really chickened out of being honest with you. Because you’re my best friend, and I don’t have best friends, so I can’t fuck this up with you. But I’ve also got a cat downstairs that I am apparently fucking keeping now, so if I can do that insane shit, I can do this insane shit.”

Kent’s eyes widen. “You’ve got—Monster?”

“Sarah, my co-worker, her girlfriend has massive allergies, so she asked me to take Monster back. I picked him up yesterday. I figure I’ll just keep him. Look, I’m sorry it’s so fucking early and I’m sorry it’s Valentine’s Day, I’m not trying to be a cliché, it’s just that I’ve been wanting to kiss you since Christmas and I kept chickening out—and for Christ’s sake, why are you always half naked? You wear shirts to bed, I’ve seen you.”

Kent’s sliver of a smile is halfway between amused and incredulous. “You’re getting off topic.”

“Not if you’re this sexy on purpose.”

“You’re really keeping Monster?”

That doesn’t answer Jeff’s totally legitimate question at all—because it is still the middle of February and damn cold. But Jeff nods seriously. “Yeah. Might as well. I’m already two months committed, what’s another ten years?”

Kent shakes his head, grins, and steps in close enough that Jeff can smell the faint remains of his body wash. It’s citrusy, familiar, and intoxicating. “I actually did take my shirt off a couple times when I saw it was you. Not always. But you always got so red, I figured it couldn’t hurt to throw you off your game.”

“I knew it—” is all Jeff gets out before Kent kisses him. It’s careful and hesitant, just the barest brush of lips in hopeful inquiry. Jeff pushes back a little to make it firm, more sure, and smiles against Kent’s mouth when Kent hums in relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one who’s afraid of a kiss fucking everything up.

When they part, Jeff says, “Just ‘cause I’m not a cat person doesn’t mean I can’t date one.”

Kent has his hands on Jeff’s hips and he squeezes gently. “Looks like you’re a cat person now, too.”

“No, I’m not. I have a cat, Parse, I’m not a cat person.”

“Semantics.”

“Do you wanna come downstairs and see my new awful cat, or not?”

Kent’s grin widens and he wraps his arms around Jeff’s waist. It eliminates the last few breaths of distance between them and makes Jeff gulp. The visual of Kent half-naked didn’t at all prepare him for the feel of it. “Yeah,” Kent says. His smile is like the sun. “Lead the way.”

[chronicbatfictioner]

JayTim Week 2018

Day 2: Friends/Enemies to Lovers // Supernatural AU Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Tim Drake was a better detective than he was as a Robin. He was small, lithe; not as agile as the original Robin, Dick Grayson, or as massive and strong as the second Robin, Jason Todd. His investigative and deductive skills, however, is often said to be second only to the Batman.

Him finding where Jason has been staying would not have been counted as a surprise for those who know him. Like Dick Grayson, like Bruce Wayne, Bruce's butler, Aflred Pennyworth. Like his Titans teammates.

Like Jason Todd.

"What do you want." Jason's voice rang out even before Tim stepped in through the window.

"I should've asked you that. You've been sending me things." Tim replied, carefully walking in to the small apartment, unsurprisingly located at the Skid Row area of the Tenderloin district. Tourists avoided the area like the plague, having heard of tales and lores of the unsavoryness that is the Tenderloin District.

For Jason Todd - as well as Tim Drake - the city being San Francisco, not Gotham, even the worst part of the district looked like Gotham's standard parts. Jason would have felt right at home here, Tim thought idly, before remembering his own apartment that used to be the Theatre at Crime Alley where Bruce's parents were murdered.

The Red Hood's helmet was staring at him from a bedside table right next to the four-poster bed. The apartment itself was a loft and not overly large, and there was only a partition that would separate the bedroom from the living room. But it has a functioning oven, apparently. And Jason was baking something in it right there and then.

"I'm testing recipes." Jason deadpanned.

"What's in it." Tim retorted. "Why me."

Jason shrugged and turned back toward the oven. "You're here, and you have friends who could devour them, so nothing would be gone to waste." Jason reasoned.

"There are lots of people around here who could eat them, anyway."

Jason scowled at him. "And have them confuse French pastry with Persian pastry?"

"What Persian-- wait. No. That's not the point. I want to know why you're... feeding me."

Jason scowled at him, again. Tim started to wonder if it was his default expression setting or if the Lazarus Pit had warped his face from the grinning, happy Jason Todd of the past to this perpetually scowling-or-frowning expression.

"You have friends." Jason repeated. "I'm not just feeding you. And they're hella healthier than the junks you people have been feeding on."

"You've tried to kill us."

Jason gave him a withering look. "No I didn't. Just you." he corrected.

Tim rolled his eyes. "You've tried to kill me." he elaborated. "And now you're... what the hell are you doing, Jason?"

Jason just lifted an incredibly delicious smelling Shepherd's Pie out of the oven. "Dinner." he said. "Mine. You want?"

In spite of only recently finishing a large piece of chocolate cake that Tim hoped has not vanished to the abyss that is Bart Allen's belly by now, Tim's stomach rumbled loudly and unabashedly - and unsolicited-ly. Jason put the pie on the table and cut it to six equal pieces.

"Six?"

"Two for each." Jason said.

Tim had to look around, in spite having checked and recon-ed the entire block three times before he got in. "There are only two of us."

Jason just glared at him and handed him a spoon. "Your pick. I'll eat first." he said. And then louder, "last person here don't get to pick!"

Sure enough, a blue-black clad body practically slithered from the vents. "No fair. What if you put glass bits in where I'm gonna bite?"

"I'd have them as visible garnishes if I'd wanted to kill you, Grayson." Jason groused. Dick pointedly ignored him and took a plate and handed it to Tim. "I'll start billing you louse tomorrow." Jason added.

Tim placed a large one-sixth of the pie on the plate, and handed it to Dick, who promptly forked a large mouthful. "No poison. But if I die in the next hour, I want you to avenge me, Timothy." he said in all seriousness after swallowing the pie.

Tim blinked as he placed a second piece - picked randomly, and handed it to Jason. And another one for him. He was a third ongoing when Dick - already halfway through his piece - commented, "Tim actually hated Shepherd's pie."

Jason groaned. "And you didn't tell me this before, why?"

Dick grinned impishly. "I want to see how you'll change his mind to come to love this wonder of this English cuisine."

Tim was still shoveling the pie into his mouth quietly, savoring each and every piece of mystery meat in it. Jason caught his eyes and asked, "converted, yet?"

"Considering it." Tim replied without thinking. "The sorbet was a hit, though. Especially with the girls." he added, then shook his head and refocused. "Seriously! What. You planning to make a bakery or something, maybe? Supplementing your ill-gotten income with a more..." he looked at his plate and was quite surprised to see it kind of only have a few forkfuls remaining, "...sweet-and-savory flavored?"

Jason gave him a dirty look. "Gee, nice to know you have such nice thoughts about my income. I suggest you get off your high horse once in a while, though. Even the almighty Oracle's 'income' aren't all squeaky clean." he pointed out. "The sorbet was good?"

Dick, Tim realized, was already on his second slice of the pie, and was watching the banter with such mock-interested expression that made Tim wanted to slam the pie dish onto his face.

"It was. But that's still not answering my question. Why are you sending me and my friends food?" Tim persisted. Because if anything, persistence is his middle name: Red 'Persistent' Robin. "You've tried to kill me. And now you're wine-ing and dine-ing me. Metaphorically. Except for the 'dine-ing' part. Why."

Jason winced. "Growing pains?" he offered lamely.

Tim did not groan. Even at Dick's snicker. "You mean my pains?"

Jason was still wincing as if the pie was coming out of his sitting end in the form of jagged rock. Tim internally grimaced at his own vicious and petty thought.

"Okay," Jason said, pausing. Glared at Dick, who gave him a hand signal of encouragement. Glared at Tim. "You want seconds?"

"Probably in a minute. You were saying? --that's pertinent to my question?"

Jason sighed dejectedly. "You're persistent." he finally said after a few dozen heartbeats.

"I didn't get this job by being pretty, contrary to popular beliefs. And I will slam the pie dish to your face if you snicker again, Grayson!" Dick was visibly trying to wipe the smirk off his face, Tim could handle that, he thought. Kind of. At least Jason agreed on the face-slamming idea. 

Jason's answer, he was not sure about. "I think you're pretty. But also pretty good with this..." Jason made a repetitive circle over the pie that Tim took as his generalized gesture that meant 'everything or something', "...job."

"Of course." Tim retorted, watching the second slice of the pie landed on his plate, and realizing that Jason's fork suddenly came too near to his jugular to his liking. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"He's got a point," Dick agreed.

Jason punched Dick's shoulder. "Well I didn't leave by choice, did I?"

A little pang of hurt stabbed at Tim's heart. "I didn't, either... technically." he said, his voice suddenly soft as he avoided Dick's eyes.

"Oooh, no, no, no, no. I've said my apologies. And you two aren't going to make this about me now." Dick suddenly protested. "Back to the matter at hand," he prodded Tim, momentarily dazed and lifting an eyebrow to complete his bitchface. But it was Jason who spoke next.

"Okay. Yeah. I'm not good with it. So I'll just..." he grimaced. Twenty heartbeats later, he muttered under his breath. "I'm sorry."

Tim blinked. If he had blinked earlier, he might have missed Jason's lips moving. He was also certain that he hadn't heard the words as much as he'd read Jason's lips.

"You..." he croaked, and then cleared his throat before continuing, "baked me stuff to apologize."

Jason was clearly blushing. "Yes. No. Well, kind of. I baked because I'm not good with words. Dessert, anyone? I've only got wine as sweets."

"I'm eighteen." Tim replied automatically, because he'd had this part of the conversation with Jason before. He'd had this part of the conversation multiple times with Jason before in the past few years, to be exact.

"You're legal in Australia."

"We're not in Australia."

"We can pretend. I won't tell if you won't." Jason continued.

"Bake. Words. Why. We're not done here." Tim pressed his lips for emphasis. And opened them again to allow his last forkful of pie in.

"I said it already! I'm sorry!" Jason huffed, picking up his and Dick's empty plates. Tim automatically followed with the empty pie dish and his own plate. Jason dumped both plate into the sink, and said, "Just put 'em there." and went to get some soda and bottled water from his fridge. And Tim just watched him after he finished placing the dishes into the sink. "Soda or water?"

"Whatever won't kill me." Tim replied. Jason handed him the water bottle.

"Less sugar. Won't kill you." Jason said. Tim observed the bottle for signs of tampering, found none, and chugged down the water rather gratefully.

He also figured that if he were to die now, at least he was wearing clean underwear.

Besides, Dick took the soda. Tim was always sure that Dick would defy all expectations and actually die of diabetes at a very old age.

Tim shook his head again and tried to focus. But his belly felt healthily full for the first time in-- well, since he'd stopped residing at the Wayne Manor.

"I need to go on home, now." Dick announced. "You two derps promise not to kill and/or maim each other, yeah?"

Jason sighed out loud. Tim just shrugged. Hey, he's not the killer around here.

Still, their nonconformity seemed to satisfy Dick. "Okay," he said. "Thanks for dinner, Jay. Superb pie I'm sure Alfred would be proud of." Jason just smirked as Dick climbed out the ventilation shaft he had came in from.

"He parked the Titans' invisible jet on the roof." Jason explained.

"I didn't see or hear him comin'." Tim admitted, gingerly took a seat next to Jason on the couch as Jason started channel surfing.

"He's Grayson, whaddya expect." Jason remarked. "Anything in particular you wanna see? Other than counting my freckles, maybe?"

Yes, Tim was still gawking at Jason. His brain was still trying to compute the 'I'm sorry', delicious shepherds pie and other baked goods, and 'less sugar, won't kill you'. And Jason. And the fact that all of the above came from Jason.

"Does this mean the baked goods will be a thing?" he wanted to know and promptly smacked his head internally. No, mouth. His brain did not want to ask just for the baked goods. He wanted to know if Jason being nice and have dinners and just plain 'ole being nice to him would be a routine of some sort. Because Tim's conscience was starting to imply that he could get used to it and feel alright about it. Maybe even be a little happy at it.

Jason shrugged as he settled on a 'how-to-make' something program on TV. "If you want."

Tim scratched his head. "I..." he started. Jason's eyes were glued to the TV and Tim wondered how the hell he'd kept his emotions so much in check. Except when he was furious about something. And Tim definitely know about the furious Jason, he'd been on the receiving end one time too many. "...do you take requests?"

"If I have the recipe, sure." was Jason's reply. "You going back to the Tower?"

"Yeah." Tim answered, forcing back a yawn, his body's signs that it is contented. "I better get going..." he said, starting toward the window. "Thanks for the dinner. And the baked stuff."

Jason got up and followed him to the window. "You have my number. One of it, at least, or a dozen. Let me know you got there safe." he said before Tim slipped out of the window to the fire escape.

Tim nodded, "sure." he said. He caught jason's eyes, And if asked later, by anyone - short of by extreme and copious use of some kind of truth serum and/or mind-reading - Tim would not admit of what brought in the impulse to hug Jason. But he did. He felt Jason tensed a little, and then relaxed under his arms and hugged back awkwardly.

Nope, definitely not saying anything.

[vmfx]

ALTERNATE ENDING #1.

The arcades opened up again after a year of closure. I felt bad that this ticket arcade is not even two miles away from my house and I only go to play once every three years. It’s a cold rainy day in early April but it’s a day off and I cashed in a buy-$20-get-$20 on my card on top of the $10 I had burning in my pocket for three years. It’s been a while that the place signified me moving to my new residency with the smell of fried pink and white balm, or once when I took my nephew there, and another time when twenty of my closest co-workers and I ate and played for Sunday-night high-score supremacy. 2021, with the exception of a harrowing, stressful, and rude March, was so far so good. And there’s a pinball parlor opening up at my local mall, too. Why not get back out there and start making experiences again?

I pull up just a few feet away from the arcade. The car is facing about 100’ away from the entrance. I rifle through my bag for my smartphone, zip it up, and throw the bag in front of the passengers seat. I’m about to open the driver’s side door to get out of my car when I look up and see a familiar face walking out of the arcade; a face I’d never expected to see again. Can it be?

My ex- had roots here. Most of her family lived in Boham up until a few years ago when her dad and brother moved to Fort Lauterdale. Her sis- got married and moved down to Atlanta. Her ma’ stayed home and tends as a school nurse. How do I know? My nephews go to the same school district where she works at. Only a few years ago she suffered the worst during her submission to heroin. Her ex- overdosed and died. She burned the bridges between us during my essential attempt to take her away from that abusive minus sign. She tail-spinned into massive cocaine and opiate use to cope with his death. She threw away all of her dignity and self-esteem and prostituted herself away to total strangers for the lowest dollar; strangers who were happy to see her with their money and were raring to go. That hell-ride derailed when she was caught stealing from two jewelry stores. They came to her house to arrest her and charged her with both 3rd and 4th degree larceny.

Her face was plastered in the local newspaper and news network. Her deadpan doe-eyed face registered every square inch of any search for those curious of her whereabouts. The footage of her grubby hands taking what wasn’t hers on the county’s crime-stopper social media. She was so embarrassed of herself that she moved to Ft. Lauderdale to escape her squalid and impure past of everything she threw away, never to show her face again…or so I thought. The fortitude or arrogance to come back as if nothing happened or if everyone forgot, because I haven’t. She must’ve been visiting her ma’, the only one willing to tolerate her.

She walked out with two strange grungy unkempt men. One possibly in his late-Twenties in his flashy gold wares, a backwards cap, white shirt, skinny dealer track-pants, and sneakers. The other in his early-Forties, dried crusty skin, oily hair, dirty black tee, denim pants, and tattered boots. My mind is wondering what all three were doing at the arcade? Were they all familiar friends having fun and enjoying an evening out? She and the two omega males walked out of the arcade in silence not even saying a word to each other, and headed towards a Chevy utility van parked several spots away from mine. Both men opened the back doors to let her enter. They stood there watching her struggle and not offering her a hand. They followed her in and closed the doors behind them. I’ll know what “having fun” and “enjoying” was very soon. It couldn’t be good…for her.

I stayed in the car wondering what was happening / playing out. My mind’s in suspense waiting for the worst to unfold. No back-and-forth rocking of the van. Then again it was a heavy duty vehicle with no give; not from where I was seeing. Where they just shooting the breeze? Were they talking about what her friends been up to? Not likely given her damaging, wasteful past. They might’ve daily-dosed themselves, nodded down, and woke up a few moments later. Thirty silent minutes later, I got my answer: the back doors opened and she skipped out of the van. The men quickly closed them behind her. She race-walked away from the site in a jiffy fixing her hair from her face, not knowing if I saw guilt, distress, or shame in her eyes. The van’s lights turn on and drive away without suspicion.

Then I noticed her shoes from where I was sitting: bright purple and white sneakers. Purple was her favorite color. I was right. It is her. My heart sunk into my chest a little further back. The events that just happened now confirmed her past and still continued history of abuse and necessary sacrifice of her heart and soul to a drug that always had her in check.

I considered flagging her down to re-appear back into her life. I considered showing her that after her best shot I was still here standing, or maybe frightening her with the leverage because I just saw it all unfold. But I didn’t. I let it slide. I wasn’t going to risk tarnishing myself for her again.

All I could’ve thought about while entering the arcade were my nephews. 13, 6, and 3. They’re still innocent and ignorant of society’s ills; all not knowing what could be in store for them and what’s truly on the line if they’re not aware. I wish all three were here with me in this moment. They would love it. I slide my card and the re-rack of wooden balls slide down the compartment. I take one and roll it. Business as usual.

[turtlesoupstories]

A Medical Emergency- Ch.3 (Part 1)

Hello all! it’s been a super long time, but i am finally back! i won’t make any excuses for why i haven’t written in so long, but know that I have lots of fun stuff planned for the future! I’ll get to the story, but as always, a huge thank you to the rest of the Kilt Kult for their advice and critical eye! I couldn’t any of this without them! So, without further ado, here is the (first part) of Chapter three! Enjoy!

-Wee Bairn Marlo ( @marlosbooknook )

It was the shrill buzz of the alarm that sent Claire leaping from bed, the remnants of her dream still clinging to her skin. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. She gazed down at the mass taking up the majority of full-sized bed. Tufts of copper hair poked from underneath the white duvet, mussed from sleep. It was an inexplicable connection that brought Claire and Jamie together, but they were content to bask in each other’s presence.

Six months had passed since Jamie had been released from the hospital, and he had scarcely left Claire’s side in that time. They shrugged off the skepticism of Claire’s coworkers at the hospital, who looked down at her workplace romance. Claire couldn’t count how many times a nosy nurse or ambitious resident brought up the hospital protocol which forbade romantic relationships between patients and their doctors. A quick reminder that Mr. Fraser was no longer a surgical patient and a telling glare was all it took to send them scurrying back to their business.

Goddamn vultures don’t know how to mind their own bloody business!

Their time together had been a whirlwind, for sure, but Claire wouldn’t have traded it for the world. It was her who asked Jamie to move in and share their lives, after only being together for about five months. The only complaint came from Claire’s kitten Adso, who did not take kindly to being replaced as the man of the house. Her small flat was littered with their shared possessions, silly mementos of their time together. A massive teddy bear Jamie won a local theme park on their first official date. The silly crown she had bought for him on their two months anniversary at Lallybroch. All of those trivial possessions made the flat into a home.

Their home.

Claire felt herself pulled from her state of tranquility as a wave of nausea overcame her, sending her scrambling for the toilet. It was rare that Claire fell ill, but this recent bout hit her like a rock. She had shrugged off Jamie’s repeated attempts to seek help and convince her to see a doctor.

“I am telling you,” she swore, “I am absolutely fine! It’s probably just the hospital food.”

I know it is the food. It can’t be anything else.

For the rest of the week Jamie packed Claire a lunch, refusing to let her touch the cafeteria fare.

As she lay hunched over the toilet, retching up last night’s dinner of frozen calzones, she felt a cold hand on her shoulder.

“God Jamie, go away! I don’t want you seeing me like this… Have some sympathy!” she cried.

Even though her head was turned, she could sense the concern in his eyes.

“I’ll show some sympathy when ye decide to see a doctor!” he responded

And so it begins again.

“I don’t need to see a doctor Jamie…. I am a bloody doctor!”

He sighed. “Aye. I ken that quite well. Ye might recall that’s how we met. But Claire, mo nighean, will you please go see a doctor? If not for you, then to ease me own concerns.”

“How many times must I tell you. I am fine! There is nothing wrong with me!”

Liar.

“You can say that as many times as ye wish, but there is something amiss about ye. Can you not at least talk to me about it. Maybe there is something I can do to help. It hurts me to see you suffering..”

She knew what he wanted. She could see it in the light of his eyes when he gazed at her stomach. But she couldn’t give him what he wanted, she knew it. She was a broken thing, a cast-off toy. There was a dull ache, a festering hole inside her that tortured her every single day. And Jamie couldn’t know about it. Not yet. Or she would lose him too.

Claire rose, eyes blazing and smoothed down the curls that flew across her face.

“I. Said. No.” Claire pushed past Jamie as she made her way of of the apartment, trying not to let him see the tears in her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late for work.”

“Claire, wait!” Jamie tried to grab her, but she pushed past him. She paused hearing her given name. It was so rare he used it, but when he did it was in earnest. It was important. But not now. This was not a conversation they were going to have. It was not a conversation that she was prepared to have. It had gone so wrong the last time..

She was leaning over the bed, hastily shoving her belongings into a bag when she felt Jamie’s arms snake around her middle, pinning her in place.

Not there. Anywhere but there.

She whipped around with more ferocity than she knew she possessed. Her words came out like a hiss, full of anger and malice and grief.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!”

And the conversation ended. Jamie stood in shock. He took a tentative step back leaving Claire bristling in her place. She could sense his hurt, the anguish as he watched her suffer. But she was going to suffer alone. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. What could she say?

I’m sorry.

But sorry for what? Sorry for hurting him, for lying to him, for being a failure. It was too much. So she said nothing.

She grabbed her bag from the bed and walked out of the bedroom eyes averted. She couldn’t bear to see what he was thinking.

[loversandantiheroes]

Like Blood Running Warm - Part 1

Author’s Note: Happy Spooktober.  A couple weeks ago I mentioned how this song made me want to write a Vamp!Clara AU.  This is the result of that.  Part 1 of probably 2 or 3 if they remain this sort of length.  Big thanks to @longjackets, @nikkidee, @kingandcrook, and @infiniteregress17 for the beta help.

Summary: A snowstorm strands a group of bus passengers at a near-derelict station overnight near the Colorado border.   One of them just can't seem to get warm.

Rating: T (currently, AO3 link is pre-tagged for the later stuff)

Warnings: Angst by the bucket, Terminal Illness, Simm!Master being...Simm!Master and thus a walking dumpster fire, Implied Past Drug Use, Implied Harassment.

Word Count: 5799

AO3 Link: here

Did you call for the night porter? You smell the blood running warm I stay close to this frozen border, so close I can hit it with a stone Now something crawls right up my spine That I always got to follow Turn out the lights Don't see me drawn and hollow Just blood running warm

      - Mark Lanegan, "When Your Number Isn't Up"

- 11:07pm

John Smith, the night porter, sat in the break room of the bus terminal. He should, by all rights, be keeping post behind the counter in the booth, even at this late of an hour, and he knew that. Pointless, though, wasn’t it? An old portable telly spouted crackling spurts of weather reports at him. Worst snow in a decade, record lows, blah blah. He could’ve guessed that himself looking at the drifts forming outside the sliding doors, which he would have to keep shovelled out unless he wanted to end up buried in here. Buried alive with shitty instant coffee, a vending machine that half-worked, and a telly he couldn’t even get a decent signal on. His employers, stingy bastards that they were, were too cheap to provide anything new or at least decent on the premises. In the lounge, where most stations would have the new plasma or LED or god-knows-what-the-fuck-ever craning down from the ceiling or mounted on the walls, there were instead tiny coin-op televisions. Bloody ancient things with built-in radio dials bolted to the arms of the benches and chairs, popping and crackling to life at the generous price of 30 minutes for a quarter.

John had no bloody idea why the hell the relics were still installed. Honestly, he didn’t know such things even existed until he took this post, but the real shocker was that somehow they still worked. By all rights, they shouldn’t be able to pick up a signal anymore, save for the radio dial, not after the big push from analog to digital broadcasting. Converter box wired up to some kind of main switch maybe, that was the best he could figure. Mystery of the fucking universe, or might as well be; tech was not his area. But it made him feel something. Kinship maybe, he thought, cradling the battered porcelain mug of coffee and trying to work some warmth into the joints of his fingers. Old and busted, but still working. Last legs, maybe, but some life still crackling inside.

He’d moved to the States for the sake of his health, that was the joke of it. Christ on a bike, that was the fucking joke. The belching exhaust of a passing lorry in Glasgow last spring had left him doubled over and hacking against a lamp post. Not that a cough was that unusual, he’d been a smoker from the age of fourteen. He was used to the hack-and-rattle first thing in the morning, or when the seasons changed from Damp and Warm to Damp and Cold (Scotland only had the two seasons, really). But this time had been different. Not quite worse, but deeper, like the first signal of the flu.

He’d gone home to his flat that day, made tea, and emptied his tobacco tin into the garbage. Good fucking riddance. Something welled up in him then. A change of scenery would be good. He was nearly fifty-six years old, and he’d never even left the country. Wanderlust, he’d called it at the time. Not entirely untrue, but a little too grand. All he’d wanted in that second was to run away. It wasn’t as if he had any real ties to Glasgow anymore. No friends to speak of, all those were gone. Family either dead or distant. He spun his wedding ring unconsciously. No children. That was almost a relief, considering.

Once he decided to go, he’d sold everything but his clothes and his guitar. Sentiment was only the half of that. He’d never admit it, but he’d simply found the idea of travelling halfway across the world with nothing but the guitar too foolishly romantic to give up. Then on the emptied floor of his flat he’d laid out a massive map of the continental US, closed his eyes, and flipped a coin at it.

He’d spent six good months in Colorado, taking odd jobs and occasionally even sitting in on open mic nights at a local bar, plucking out something of The Velvet Underground or Bowie, and chalking up the slow but steady weight loss as stress and an aversion to American food. Then the cough had come back.

Small cell lung cancer. The fast moving shit. The sort that dug its nails in and decided it lived in you now. Gentrification of the lungs. Radiation or chemo might have bought him some time, but that was the best it could offer. But the pricetag on a few more months was entirely too steep. One look in the clinic window at the thinning husks hooked up to IV drips with pallid eyes and piebald pates, and he’d been out like a shot. On his way to work that night he’d bought a pack of cigarettes. If he was gonna die, he’d at least do it with a full head of hair.

John leaned over the break room table, rubbing at his temples. Too busy feeling sorry for himself to think fucking properly, he inhaled just a bit too sharply. The heating in the bus station was rubbish, the glass windows and sliding doors too thin to keep the cold out, and the electric heater he’d dragged in himself, in a feeble attempt to keep his toes from freezing during the long winter, barely managed to take the chill out of the break room.

Cold air needled into his lungs, and he choked, sputtering and coughing so hard it made his bones ache. Hot coffee sloshed over his hands, and he swore, or at least tried. He needed air to curse, and his lungs weren’t having any of that nonsense. He pounded on the table, sloshing more coffee and overturning a plastic tumbler full of spoons. As the fit subsided, John fumbled in his pockets for his handkerchief and spat, folding it away and trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it come away from this lips bloody.

John sat with his head between his knees until he could breathe evenly again, the sound of the telly all but drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. At last, he stood, sopped up the mess of coffee, and stumbled out to check the departures and arrivals. Departures from Shotton had been cancelled even before John had limped to work in his jeep. The last two drivers had waved him off as he pulled in, climbing into their own cars to get the hell out of Dodge and back home before the snow settled in with any real intent. Now the roads were closing, and that meant he might be stuck here alone, hacking his lungs up over bad coffee and worse telly until the snow plows went out.

“Fuck,” he muttered. The arrivals list, which had been a string of delays when he’d come in, was now almost completely cancelled. All but one. 11:20 from Cheyenne. Delayed, but still inbound. Wonderful. Snowed in overnight with a busload of pissy tourists on their way to Denver. Wouldn’t that just be a time. “Of-fucking-course. You couldn’t even give me one miserable night off, could you?” he growled at the ceiling.

He kept swearing as he pulled his winter gear on. He’d read once that swearing helped with pain relief; maybe the blue streak would keep him warm. He struggled this balaclava over his head, wondering if it wasn’t time for a haircut. He was a little too proud to still have a full head of hair, grey or no, and had let it go a little wild after the move. Insulation, he told himself. Too fucking cold to trim the hair back, be liable to freeze to death before the cancer gets a chance to finish the fucking job.

Laughing, John wound his scarf around his head.

- 11:34pm

John had most of the entry cleared and shook down with rock salt and sand, when he saw headlights. The bus lurched up through the drive, crunching and shuddering its way up through the snow to the sheltered entrance.

John leaned on his shovel and flapped a thickly-gloved hand as the bus ground to a stop in front of him. The door hissed open, blowing a gorgeously welcome gust of heated air at him. The driver was a new guy, a round-faced man with close cropped hair and a frankly terrible goatee. “Fuck me ragged,” the driver called down, grinning, “I’m gonna get held up by the Michelin Man.”

John made a gun out of his right hand and popped his thumb. Ka-chow. “You’ll want to get inside,” he shouted through too many layers of damp wool.

The driver frowned, motioning at his ear. “Can’t hear you, pal.”

He waved again, palm in, fingers curling. Come the fuck in.

- 11:40pm

There weren’t many passengers, thank God. John counted heads as they shambled in, jamming his gloves into his pockets and fiddling with his scarf which had gone stiff with frost. Seventeen or eighteen, including the driver, who’d pulled off to try and park the bus proper while he still stood a chance to get it moving. An old couple cooed and laughed over the coin-op televisions. A young black woman in a pea-colored coat almost as heavily padded as his own gave him a nervous smile as he struggled out of his balaclava. She asked hopefully about coffee with a London accent that made him do a double take.

“Or tea or hot chocolate?” she went on in the sort of bright tone only the incredibly anxious and incredibly exhausted can achieve. “Anything hot, honestly, I’m not fussy.”

John grunted, both in effort and assent. He’d worked up a fair sweat out there, and the wool was stuck fastidiously to his head. He bent, trying to pull it up from the back, and heard a second voice with an unmistakable Blackpool twinge.

“Easy, mate, you’ll pull your whole head off by mistake.”

Cold fingers brushed at the nape of his neck, curling into the wool, helping him pull. And then he was free, spitting lint and rifling a hand through the haphazard sprawl of his hair.

London giggled behind her hand. Beside her now was a second, significantly smaller woman who was holding his snow-crusted balaclava out to him. For a second, all he saw were her eyes, wide and brown and faintly crinkled at the corners as she smiled up at him. She was lovely, far too lovely, and he was far too old, and oh Jesus Christ he was staring.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to flatten the beast his hair had become. “Uhm, the coffee machine’s on the fritz,” he said, gesturing at the line of vending machines and utterly missing the excited upshoot both women’s eyebrows did when they heard his accent. With a touch of annoyance, he noticed the out of order sign had dropped once again and was slowly soaking into a puddle of slush. “I’ve got a kettle in the break room, but the coffee’s instant. But there’s quite a lot of it, at least, so.” He shrugged, grinning awkwardly and trying not to look at the short one with the big eyes.

“That’d be amazing, I’m frozen,” London said, bouncing on her toes.

“Right, well, have a seat, I’ll go and get that on.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Blackpool said.

London scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No accounting for taste,” she muttered.

Blackpool stuck out her tongue.

John glanced at her sidelong as he opened the door to the break room. She noted his hesitation and gave him a quizzical look. “You on your own tonight?”

John frowned. “Yeah, why?”

“Then I will definitely give you a hand. You look fit to keel over.”

The frown deepened into a scowl.

She laughed. “Oh, go on, your eyebrows look like they could shoot laser beams when you scrunch up like that.”

He pushed through the door after her, shrugging his parka off and pretending that he wasn’t trying to hide a smile, unsure why he should be hiding it other than that recurring little prickle that said she’s too pretty and you’re too old and have you forgotten you’re dying?

“I like the accent. Where in Scotland?” she asked, already filling the kettle as he stripped off his overalls.

“Glasgow.” He spared her a glance over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re from Blackpool?”

“Ooh, jackpot, well done.”

“Not the sort of accent I expected to hear coming in with the snow in the arse-end of America. I had friends there. The other girl, London, is she with you?”

“No, not really. Met her at the station, actually, we’ve just been headed the same way. Fell in together a bit. It was just nice, y’know. Familiar sort of accent. America’s so bloody big, makes you feel a little less alone.” Her gaze shifted outward and for a moment she was gone, the over the hills and far away sort of gone, hands still trying to seat the kettle without the help of her eyes. On the third try, she finally managed to set the it down on the base properly and click it on.

“Oh. I know that look,” he muttered, sitting down to try and struggle his overalls past his boots. “Someone’s homesick.”

“Something like that.”

He opened his mouth, but the well-meaning platitude he’d meant to give was lost in a deep, lung-rattling cough. He bent double, hugging his knees, eyes squeezed shut, and told himself over and over again it will pass, it will pass, it will pass. Spots burst and swam behind his eyelids as his body protested the idea. The muscles in his body froze up, lungs refusing any command except get out get out get out. All at once the darkness seemed to deepen, wrapping around him, swallowing him up. There was a bizarre sensation of detachment. Like he was falling into himself, as if his body was some hollow thing he was floating around inside like a sensory deprivation tank.

An arm curled around his shoulders, holding his body up, a cold hand rubbing circles on his back. Blackpool’s voice came floating through the black from miles off like sweet woodsmoke.

“Hey, c’mon breathe, breathe, you’re alright.”

At last, his muscles unlocked, and he sucked in a great whooping gulp of air and coughed again, half-retching as Blackpool shoved a crumpled wad of tissues into his hands. John sat shaking as his breathing leveled, swimming back up into the peaked fluorescent light. The coughing was old, but the blackout, that was new. New and decidedly not good. Blackpool’s hand still rubbed at his back. She was still there. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and as he blinked the tears out of his eyes he saw a smear of red across his knuckles. Fuck.

Blackpool looked down at the blood on his hand, eyes wide with concern and something else he couldn’t quite place. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Her pupils were dangerously wide, irises a thin sliver of copper that seemed to pulse and flash. A fresh shudder rippled up his spine.  Lack of oxygen, he told himself.  Surely.

“You need a doctor,” she whispered, searching her coat pockets and finally producing a phone in a chipped blue case.

He grasped her hand, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

“The hell you don’t,” she hissed. “You’re ill.”

“I know,” he said, and that stopped her. He sighed. “Just, please, trust me. An ambulance couldn’t make it through this mess anyway. No point. I’ll be fine in a minute, I just need to catch my breath.”

She stared him down, mouth set and grim. For a long, horrible moment he felt close to talking. To actually saying it. He hadn’t actually told anyone about the diagnosis. There was nobody to tell, and somehow that was the worst of it. He was going to die here alone in a shithole of a town thousands of miles from home, and nobody would know. Loneliness hit him in a crushing wave. He saw himself reflected in the dark of her eyes, drawn and pale and hopelessly lost.

And then she sighed, and his shoulders dropped, and the moment passed.

“What’s your name, Glasgow?” she asked finally.

“John. But mostly people call me the Doctor.” She gave him a funny look and he shrugged. “Old nickname. Long story.”

“No doctor for the Doctor, though?”

He shook his head, resolute.

“Well, then fuck that,” she said flatly. “Glasgow it is.”

He rasped a laugh that set him dangerously close to coughing again. “Suppose I’m supposed to just call you Blackpool, then?”

“It’s only fair.” She smiled tentatively. “But it’s Clara, for the record.”

- 12:03am

Blackpool - Clara - handed out hot water in little styrofoam cups. John followed behind with sachets of coffee and tea bags and tiny packets of sugar. London, who Blackpool said was named Bill, squealed happily when he produced a pyramid-shaped teabag out of his pocket.

“Oh that is gorgeous, you’re a lifesaver, mate.”

Blackpool had moved onto the driver, whose name tag was emblazoned with “MASTERS” in off-kilter lettering. His cheshire grin slipped sideways into a leer as she handed him the cup, his fingers lingering on hers a little too long.

“Cheers, love,” he said with an overblown wink and an equally overblown mockery of an English accent.

Blackpool’s face went stony, and she jerked back, moving on quickly to the elderly couple. The grin on Masters’ face spread even broader.

Bill fidgeted, her own smile fading fast. Her eyes flitted around like nervous hummingbirds, lighting on Blackpool, him, the ceiling, the floor. Anywhere but the driver. John clenched his jaw, hands making a decision for him before his brain stood a chance to intervene, accidentally fumbling the handful of coffee and sugar and knocking the cup of still-steaming water out of Masters’ hands and into his lap. The room was entirely too cold (and his kettle frankly a bit too crap) for the piddly amount of liquid to be hot enough to actually hurt him, but the man yowled like it was boiling.

“Ach, so sorry mate,” John crowed, playing up the Glasgow in his voice to the most ridiculous degree he could that still stopped short of Rab C. Nesbitt territory. “The cauld goes fae my joints, sorry, like, I’ll get ye some towels an’ a fresh cuppa, dinnae worry about it.”

He trotted back to the office, more than a little delighted at the sour look on the driver’s face. How’d that saying go? Like a rottweiler licking piss off a dandelion. That was the one. Beautiful.

- 12:15am

John ran out an extension cable and a power strip for the ones needing a charge for their phones, which unsurprisingly was all of them. Reception was shit, and the storm was only half of it. No wifi, either. He made apologies, gesturing at the desperately out of date equipment. “Give them another ten years, and they might actually catch onto the indoor plumbing fad.”

Blackpool gave him a wink and a thumbs up over the top of her phone. London rolled her eyes and lamented the absence of Netflix, rather loudly at that. Blackpool shook her head and set to poking half-heartedly at Candy Crush.

London wandered over, leaning back against the desk where John sat. She had apparently memorized the names of the other passengers and ticked them off to John as she sipped at her tea. She pointed out the elderly couple. “Melvin and Tilly. Their granddaughter just had her first baby, they’re going down to visit. Spiky hair over there is named Dan or Dave or maybe Doug, he talks a bit too fast for me to really catch it. The cougar with the long blonde hair is Susan; loves badminton, very straight though, shame. Oh, that over there, that’s Dee. Or D, like the letter, not sure which.”

“And of course, you’ve met Clara,” she gestured at Blackpool, who was still flicking through her phone. “Late twenties, maybe early thirties at a push. Used to be an English teacher back home, I think she said. Didn’t like talking about home though. Breakup or something, I dunno. There’s a sore spot there, I didn’t want to poke. I did learn, however, that she likes Jane Austen, souffles, and apparently, older men.” London tilted her head at him pointedly, amused by the way John’s gaunt cheeks colored as he stared fastidiously at his shoelaces. She tutted. “Oh you poor bugger. Five minutes in and you’ve already got it bad. Don’t worry, mate, same here.”

“I really d-”

“Oh like hell. You absolutely have, of course you have. I’m not stupid. And I mean it’s not like I can blame you. Look at ‘er.” She lifted her hands again at the other woman as if her existence was the only proof needed. In fairness, it probably was.

John nodded solemnly. “Alright. So what next, fisticuffs? Rifles at dawn? You can get in an early dig at my honor if you want, I’ll let you go first.”

She laughed. “Naw mate, she is way out of my league. Out of your league too, now that I think about it.” London put a playful elbow in his ribs. “She still likes you though. I can tell. Haven’t seen her smile at a single bloke until she saw you.”

He cleared his throat. “And uh, what about the driver? Masters. What’s the deal there?”

London’s smile evaporated. “He’s a prick,” she said flatly.

- 12:40am

“Alright, the suspense is killing me,” Blackpool said at last. She’d taken to pacing around the lounge with her phone in her hands and had veered out of her path to the front desk suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” he said, blinking.

“You said people called you the Doctor. Why?”

John waved a dismissive hand. “It’s really not that interesting, honestly.”

“C’mon.”

“Why do you want to know?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. “Because I am dying of boredom. And because, quite frankly, I like listening to you talk.” John fumbled his pen. Blackpool didn’t seem to notice. She tilted her head. “How’s your cough, by the way? I suppose I shouldn’t bother you. Talking might actually be a bad idea….oh god, I am rambling aren’t I?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly.

“Right. Well. I’ll just, uhm.” She motioned away.

“I had something of a reputation when I was younger,” he said suddenly, not really wanting to tell but wanting her to leave even less. “Drugs. College,” he shrugged. “Nothing terribly shocking, but also not very legal. Used to get folk turning up at all hours on my doorstep, worn out or strung out or heartbroken. I’d find the right remedy in my bag of tricks to calm them down, get them talking.”

“A stoner psychologist?”

“Basically.” He leaned back and spread his hands. “The Doctor is in.”

- 1:17am

Boredom took over rather quickly. D-or-Dee, a youth with a partially shaved head and a pocket full of quarters went around feeding coins into the slots of the tiny mounted TVs, looking for one that still worked. For awhile, several of them crowded around to catch the weather reports - snow, lots of; we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming - but it quickly became apparent that the only thing on this late was going to be infomercials and horrible sitcom reruns. The tiny knot of people dispersed, and the youth settled for twiddling the radio dials, trying to find a signal in the squelch and static.

“How do you manage alone here at night?” Blackpool said, leaning over the front desk and swirling the last dregs of her instant coffee as he scratched at a newspaper with a pen. “This place is practically prehistoric. I keep waiting for a dinosaur to jump out of the ladies’ and come charging out to eat us.”

“Alas, it’s never been quite that interesting. But I manage, mostly.” John wiggled his pen at the desktop, heavily populated with familiar nightshift detritus: thin paperbacks (Vonnegut and Iain M. Banks stuff mostly), crosswords, at least three newspapers, and an mp3 player half-hidden under a pack of L&M cigarettes. A stack of monitors to his right showed crackly footage from security cameras in the station; two from the lounge, one in the hall by the lavs, and two outside at the front and back entrances. He gave them a cursory glance and saw nothing amiss. Then looked again, brows knitting together. That wasn’t entirely true. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He checked the doors again and did a head count, lost count, tried again, distracted by the way Masters was leaning over three chairs to talk to London, who was resolutely ignoring him. John felt the first twinge of a headache at his temples. What the hell was he missing?

And then Blackpool’s arm darted in front of him and grabbed the mp3 player and the cigarettes in one quick swoop that left him blinking.

“Oi, Quick Draw McGraw, give over!”

Blackpool shook the cigarette pack and gave him a disapproving glare. “Seriously?”

He scowled. She seemed to bring that out in him. “I’m old enough, miss, honest. I’ve got ID, I can prove it, even.”

“These can’t be doing your lungs any favors.”

“When did you turn into my mother?”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that I guess I’ll just have to take your toys away,” she said coolly, slipping them into her pocket.

John scoffed. “You really want to be stuck in here with a crotchety old bugger going off nicotine? Trust me, it won’t be pretty.”

“You ought to take better care of yourself, y’know.” The playfulness hadn’t gone, not entirely, but there was a genuine edge of concern.

John felt heat creep up his face and grumbled, fiddling with his hair. That inexplicable urge to tell her hit him again. Christ, he was pathetic. Was this all it took? A pretty face and a kind word, and he was ready to fall on his knees and confess. It was a sin anyway, wasn’t it? Suicide by inaction. Jesus. Get ahold of yourself for fuck’s sake.

Blackpool held up the mp3 player. “Got anything good in here?”

“Depends on your definition of good.”

Music warbled faintly from the earbuds as she shuffled through his playlist. “Bowie. Lots of Bowie.  Miles Davis.  Screaming Trees. And...Peter Andre?” She gave him a look that was just a hair’s breadth away from mocking.

“It got stuck in my head, ok? It was either download it or put a plastic spork in my ear.”

She laughed, properly laughed, round face all crinkled up, rocking on her elbows. Any indignance he might’ve felt fled immediately. He watched her laugh and felt a little of the malaise drain from his limbs.

Blackpool shook her head at him, eyes sparkling. “Well, that’s good to see.”

“What?”

“You. Smilin’.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He hadn’t even realized.

She patted his hand. A fleeting touch, but enough to make his heart catch almost painfully. “It looks good on you,” she said.

“Oh, flattering an old man,” he said. “If you’re here for my many many riches, as clearly evidenced by my glamorous, high-paying position, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“Shut up,” she smacked his shoulder lightly.

“I just thought you should be aware!” he carried on, blustering his way through the blush that wanted to creep up his cheeks again.

A sudden burst of static made the both of them jump. D-or-Dee cheered happily, having finally found a radio signal that wasn’t just weather reports or bad country music. Violin strings cut through the crackle and pop in a lilting swell. A guitar crawled in in response, sweet and slow as molasses. John recognized it, an old Fleetwood Mac tune from the Peter Green days.

Melvin, the old guy, was on his feet suddenly, tugging at his wife’s arm. Tilly cackled, called him a sentimental old goat. And then she went to him, smiling sweetly, hands clasped together, one arm on his shoulder. They revolved slowly, beaming at one another.

A few others joined them, Dave/Dan/Doug, the youngish fellow with spiky hair, offered his hand to Susan, a woman about John’s age who laughed musically and joked about breaking her hip, but went anyway. D-or-Dee snatched up London even as Masters was moving closer and twirled her away while the driver was left sneering. A cold little prickle crawled up the back of John’s neck as he locked eyes with the driver. He was going to be trouble. Before sun up, John was certain, he would be trouble.

Blackpool’s hand was on his again, her eyes locked mistily on the elderly couple. “Dance with me?” she asked suddenly.

He sputtered, half-laughing, an immediate refusal on his lips, but then she turned her head and he saw the tears in her eyes. He knew that look. It wasn’t wistfulness but hurt, like an old wound had suddenly reopened. John felt his heart perched on the edge of something he didn’t want to name, teetering, ready to fall. He could let it, knowing at once he’d give anything to take away whatever pain had filled her, and chastised himself for the foolishness.

As if he could. The plows would go out in the morning and she would be on another bus and that would be it. And anyway, he was old enough to be her father and not likely to see the last snows of the season melt. Nothing lasted, not ever. The kid turned the music up, and John felt it working in his chest. A little miracle, a little spark crackling away inside. Old and battered and still playing something sweet and strong enough to make him feel. Maybe that wasn’t all the music. Maybe.

Nothing lasted, but maybe it didn’t have to last to be worth it.

John squeezed her hand once and made for the door. The security monitors dragged his attention for a split second, but he kept moving. Whatever it was, it could wait another five minutes. Blackpool held her arms out as he rounded the desk. He hesitated, swallowing hard. People were watching. London looked at once hopelessly amused and somehow proud. She grinned at him and popped a double thumbs-up, giggling. The driver looked significantly less pleased. The man’s face had gone rat-like and sour, staring at them both with such utter contempt John could almost feel it on his skin, slippery and unpleasant like motor oil.

But Blackpool’s eyes were turned up to him, wide and dark and too full. You wave and you wave with your wide lovely eyes ran through his head with a kind of sick-sweet flush. He went to her. London pumped her fist discretely in triumph.

“You’re cold,” he said as she curled around his shoulder.

“I’m alright.” She took his left hand with her right. Should’ve felt odd. Probably. It didn’t. She led and he followed, trying to pretend he was more than a gangly wreck of limbs and mad silver hair.

She settled against him, fingers worrying over the ring on his hand. “I hope I’m not,” she paused, pressed her face to his jacket, tried to start again. “I dunno, overstepping or something. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to put the mack on a married man.”

His eyebrows flew up. “You’re putting the mack on me now, are you?”

“Shut up,” she said, but there was a chuckle in it.

“I’m not married anymore. It’s sentiment, I suppose. Maybe just habit by now. Just never taken it off.”

She looked up at him, searching his face as if looking for the answer to something she didn’t quite want to ask. She seemed to find it. He could guess; a ghost of that same hurt he’d seen in her face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

John’s mouth went painfully dry. “You too, eh?” he asked.

She nodded. “We weren’t married,” she said, so quiet he could just barely hear her over the music. “But he was going to propose.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her breath hitched, and she swayed a little in his arms, head down low on his shoulder. John turned them slowly, putting his back to the room, giving her what little privacy he could. He stared out the window. The snow was coming down harder, big fat snowballs of the stuff forming new drifts in the track he had cleared. The sky outside was a dull, muddied pink, the snow drifts colored orange in the streetlights. Blackpool wept discreetly, not making a sound, but he felt tears soak through his hoodie to his t-shirt, and wondered that even those felt cold. He pressed his hand into the small of her back, thumb rubbing absently against her spine, and he tucked the top of her head under his chin. She smelled faintly of lilac soap and deep, bitter chocolate.

“Thank you,” she said as the song ended.

“What for?”

“For being kind.” She looked up at him again, and he watched the last of her tears spill down her cheeks. “That’s rarer than it ought to be.”

A commercial for Thompson’s Water Seal replaced Peter Green, and the other pairs drifted apart. John barely noticed. Her eyes skimmed down over his face, pausing long enough at his lips to make his heart beat faster. She couldn’t possibly...

A cracking from outside made his head snap up, and John watched as a heavy branch bowed over the power lines, cracking and popping. He swore, dropping his hand to his belt where his maglite hung, just as the branch gave way and fell.

In the split second before the darkness descended, John finally registered what had been wrong with the cctv feed. As light as it was outside, even at this hour, the inside of the station was brighter, and he saw himself reflected in the plate glass of the sliding doors. Six feet of wiry thin Scot. Face a little too long, a little too drawn now, but eyes as bright and cold as the night outside. His hands hovered in midair, clasping nothingness.

Of the woman in his arms, there was no sign. Blackpool had no reflection.

[aniallstory-blog]

Chapter Twelve

I found it slightly ironic, but as soon as things seemed to be getting better between Niall and I (or at least as much better as they could get before we had the conversation we needed to have), the media and fans seemed to catch on that things hadn't been going well. It wasn't unusual for us to be in different countries, especially when Niall was as busy as he was so no one had thought much of it apparently until a few days before Niall was due home.

I was mindlessly scrolling through Snapchat, reading all the weird articles they have on there when one from some trashy magazine caught my eye. It was a picture of Niall looking quite worn down and tired and the article explained how an inside source had told them that Niall and I had a massive bust up over how busy he'd been lately. Apparently the strain of the distance was becoming to much and I was starting to stray. It was supposedly obvious due to how exhausted poor Niall seemed when he was caught leaving his house early the Saturday before. Little did they know that Niall was probably really just tired because he was up late having phone sex with me the night before after I’d seen him on the Tonight Show.

I rolled my eyes and closed the article, but my curiosity had been piqued. Niall's fans were top notch investigators. Whenever anything was going on his life, they figured it out and I began to wonder if they had caught on to the trouble we'd been having. The only people who knew about our situation were close friends and family who would never blab to fans or the press, but I knew both Niall and I had felt and looked very off when he left London a month ago and the fans had figured out less obvious things before.

Knowing I should know better, I opened Tumblr and began to dig. The first things I found were all quite tame. Some people enquiring to some of the more popular fan blogs about whether or not the people running them thought that our sullen behaviour meant our relationship was on the rocks, but most of those answers were quiet mature, stating simply that relationships are complicated and if we were having trouble it was our business and we'd figure it out ourselves. I should have just stopped there, but I dug deeper until I found what I'd been looking for, but hoped I wouldn't find.  

There was a section of the One Direction fan group that, putting a positive spin on things, defended the boys to the death. When they noticed that Niall seemed less than his usually perky self over the last month, they began speculating and came to the conclusion that it was all my fault. As soon as I saw that I really should have stopped reading, but I was in too deep and began reading all the horrible things they had to say about me. 

They called me every name under the sun, pointed out every single flaw I had, listed thousands of reasons why I wasn't and never would be good enough for Niall and even wished my death and said I should kill myself. It was nothing I hadn't seen before, but it still stung just like it always had. Knowing that there's a large number of girls in the world that absolutely despise you and would be happy if you died would probably damage even the strongest person's self esteem.

They didn't know anything about my relationship with Niall and they hadn't even come close to figuring out the reason that we were at odds, but I was already stressed enough about the state of our relationship and I was pms-ing so by the time I'd finished reading through the comments I felt defeated. I'd let them get under my skin and I instantly regretted it. I spent the whole day at work on edge, like everyone was judging me and even just walking down the street it felt like everyone's eyes were on me. It was ridiculous because most of the comments had been posted at least a week earlier and my life hadn’t changed in any way, but I couldn’t shake the feeling.

I wanted to call Niall, to tell him what I'd read and how I was feeling because I knew he would know just what to say to fix it like he had every other time, but he'd told me time and time again not to read stuff online so I felt silly running to him for comfort over such an avoidable thing. I couldn't stand being in the city surrounded by people though so late Thursday night I called Margie, faked an illness and took the next day off work. I got up early Friday morning and headed out of the city. A quiet few days in Holmes Chapel to regroup seemed like just what I needed before Niall got home on Monday.

-

It wasn't a long drive to Holmes Chapel, but with our issues back on my mind and the added stress of reading a list of my flaws the day before, it gave me far more time than I would have liked to be alone with my thoughts.  By the time I was half way there I'd thought my way almost into a panic attack when a sign caught my eye. It was simply a sign to take the next exit for Wolverhampton, but suddenly my mind was flooded with much happier thoughts and memories.

**

November 2016

“Niall, seriously, where are we going?” I asked for probably the millionth time.

“Patience is a virtue,” Niall chuckled as we turned down yet another random road.

I huffed and leaned on my elbow as I looked out the window, sulking that Niall hadn't broken to my pleading and given away our mysterious destination. It was our fourth anniversary and Niall had given me no indication of our plans. He told me to wear something nice, but not necessarily fancy and packed me into the car. We'd been driving for just over two hours already and our destination was no more clear to me. It was already dark due to the time of year which made my guessing even more difficult and Niall was definitely deliberately trying to confuse me by taking as many back roads as he could.

Even though the suspense was killing me, it was a nice evening. Niall had been working long days, some times even well into the night, trying to get some songs he liked for his album and the stress of not being successful in that endeavour had made him a bit cranky during the short amount of time we'd actually had together. I understood where he was coming from and tried my best to be supportive, but it was nice to finally have a night with no distractions when Niall had a smile on his face. There were times when we just chatted and caught up, times when we reminisced about all we'd done in the last four years, times when we cranked up the radio and sang loudly and dramatically and times when we just drove in silence enjoying each other's company. Even if Niall just ended up driving us back to our house I would have been completely satisfied.

He didn't though and after almost four hours of driving we arrived at our destination despite the fact that I still had no clue where we were. I got out of the car and looked around. It was practically pitch black where we were parked, but I could faintly make out the beginning of a trail.

“Niall, did you bring me out here to kill me?” I teased, pulling my jacket tighter around my body to keep out the cold air.

“Of course,” Niall rolled his eyes. “After four years I got sick of ya and decided to celebrate our anniversary by offin' ya in the woods.”

“I knew it,” I playfully pouted as he walked around the car and reached for my hand.

“Promise I won't hurt ya,” He smiled as he led me away from the car and towards the dark car. “M'surprised ya haven't figured out where we are yet.”

“The last sign I noticed was an exit for Wolverhampton so unless we're going to see Liam's parents then I have no idea where we are.”

Niall chuckled again, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Definitely not goin' ta see Liam's parents,” He assured me. “Can't believe I actually got ya here without ya figurin' it out, spent ages planning a route that wouldn't give it away.”

“You're so sneaky,” I smiled, my heart fluttering at the effort he put in to this evening. I quickly realized one flaw in his plan though as my heel sank into the muddy trail causing my foot to slip out when I tried to step again. “Shit, Niall, my shoe!”

I carefully balanced on one foot as he looked down to see what I was talking about. With a laugh at my distress, he bent down to pick it up before turning to his back was towards me.

“Get on,” He instructed. “I probably should have advised ya t’wear better shoes.”

I hesitated for a moment, but considering my missing shoe was now in Niall's hand I didn't have many options and hopped onto his back as gently as I could.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “How far are we going? Am I hurting your knee?”

“Yer fine, love,” Niall insisted. “Not going too far and my knee is fine. Yer light as a feather.”

I giggled and rested my head on his shoulder as he walked down the path. I desperately peeled my eyes for something familiar, but it was too dark to see more than a few feet around us on either side so I quickly gave up, knowing I'd know soon enough.

-

After maybe fifteen minutes of walking, I saw something off in the distance. Twinkling little lights that as we got closer I realized were candles lighting a path. Niall stopped where the candles began and gently lowered me to the ground before squatting down to place my shoe on my foot.

“Know where we are yet?” I had a very vague idea in the back of my mind, but it seemed so odd that I simply shook my head. “Alright, well ya will soon.”

Niall put his hand back in mine and led me down the path between the candles. At the end of the path was a gate from which I saw a very familiar sight despite it being decorated with fairy lights and candles and a cute little table with two chairs.

“Are we at my aunt's house?” I asked, my earlier suspicions quickly confirmed. “Why're we here?”

Niall simply opened the gate and led me inside, but I did notice his hand feeling a bit clammier than it was before almost like he was nervous. He didn't say a word to me until we'd made it over to the patio where he moved so he was standing in front of me, next to the table.

“We're here because I thought the best place to do this would be the place that we shared our first kiss,” Niall explained and I felt my heart rate speed up as I caught on to what was about to happen. “The last four years that I've known ya have been the best four years of me life and not just because I've been living the dream and travellin' the world, but because I've done it all with you by me side.” I felt tears well up in my eyes as he looked at me with such love and adoration I could barely stand it. “You've inspired me when I needed a muse, you've motivated me when I was strugglin' and you've made me a better man by lovin' me like ya do. I don't know how I got so lucky or how I managed to keep ya around, but I'd really like t’keep ya around forever, so,” Pausing for a minute to carefully lower himself down onto one knee and pull a ring box out of his pocket, Niall looked up at me. “Avery Jane Seeley, will you marry me?”

He opened the box, revealing an absolutely gorgeous ring that couldn't have been better suited for me and a quiet, happy sob fell from my lips as the reality of the situation washed over me.

“Yes, yes!” I practically squealed, frantically nodding my head. “Of course!”

Niall beamed and quickly fumbled to slide the ring on my finger before standing up and pulling me into a hug.

“Just made me the happiest man in England, Ava,” He breathed out, sounding a bit choked up himself.

I quickly leaned back, keeping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips against his.

“And you made me the happiest girl in the world,” I told him as I pulled away from the kiss a few moments later. He smiled and pressed another brief kiss against my lips as a thought struck me. “Is my entire family watching us from Gemma's bedroom window?”

Niall chuckled, but nodded his head.

“Probably,” He admitted. “But that's the price I had to pay to get them to let me use this spot and they promised to leave us alone for a bit so would ya like some champagne before we officially tell them the good news?”

“That sounds perfect,” I grinned.

We spent the next hour all wrapped up in each other. Holding hands, sharing kisses over the table and planning our future together. Eventually we decided we'd made my family wait long enough and went inside to include them in our celebrations.

*

That night seemed like so long ago despite the fact that it had only been six months. The future then had seemed so bright and exciting and now it had lost a bit of it's shine. My reminiscing had been helpful though. Thinking back to that night and all the things we had discussed and words of love we shared, I knew Niall and I still both felt exactly the same way. I still loved him more than I ever imagined I'd love anyone and he still thought being with me made him the luckiest man in England. And no wedding delays or jealous fangirls on the internet could change that.

Niall and I would be just fine. We'd get through this like we got through everything else. Together.

[alexanderwrites]

Thoughts Roundup - Twin Peaks: The Return, Part 7

                               “There’s a body, alright”

A note: From here on out, i’m going to be rounding up my thoughts on new episodes of Twin Peaks: The Return week by week. I wrote a review of the first two episodes, but given my love for the show and the complexity of the episodes, typical reviews might be tricky, and it’d be a lot more fun to write in a looser format. So, i’m going to bullet-point my thoughts, which I promise will get boring and erratic.

. I’m really glad to see Jerry Horne again. He’s always been a favourite of mine, and even if this is pretty much all he does this season (which I imagine it will be), that’s good enough for me. Interesting that he mentions his car being stolen - there seems to be a lot about stolen cars this season. Whether they’re linked or just a common theme is open for debate. Maybe Frost or Lynch got their car nicked around the time of writing the series. 

. I absolutely adore Hawk having such a big part this series. It makes such logical sense that he’d have larger responsibilities within the department, and seeing him with the pages from Laura’s diary was immensely satisfying. The reference that Laura makes in the diary to the ‘dream’ she had of Annie is further reference to Fire: Walk With Me, which, if you haven’t seen it yet, is pretty much essential to this season so far. 

. I found it really interesting that Truman wasn’t surprised or confused at the mention of Cooper being trapped in the Black Lodge. He didn’t even ask what it was, so i’m guessing this was a chat the folks in the department had with him when he took the job. “Oh, b-t-dubs, there’s a gateway to what might be hell in the woods. Ask your brother about it And always make another pot of coffee if you finish it off”. I also found Truman, who until now hadn’t done much for me, pretty moving in his scenes tonight. His expression during his call to his terminally ill brother (we miss you, Harry! Kind of!) was rendered painfully on Robert Forster’s face - and I was really moved to see Doc Hayward, even briefly. He’s so visibly frail and old, and seeing all these old (and I mean OLD) faces really hits home the passing of time. There’s an everyday tragedy and pain in seeing it, made particularly poignant that Warren Frost (and several other cast members) passed away not so long ago. I keep wanting the Log Lady to come in with words of beauty and comfort about time passing and the world changing, but i’m not sure we’ll see her again (the actress, Catherine Coulson, passed away in 2015). It’s both saying hello, and goodbye, and the acknowledgement this show has always had that everything must pass is deeply affecting. I wasn’t expecting this series to make me ruminate on the nature of life and death so much. Thanks, assholes. 

Hayward talks about Cooper the morning he comes back from the Lodge - It’s so strange to hear the events of the morning that Cooper rammed his damn head into the mirror get discussed. It really drives home that the moment you’ve been thinking about for the past 2,000 years is getting some context and elucidation. It’s very, very cool. 

. Sheriff Truman pulls a small log-shaped handle and a computer monitor emerges from his desk. If you have a better example of old Twin Peaks merging with the modern world, i’d like to see it. Then i’d like to install it in my house.

. Harold Smith, that sad flower dweeb from season 2, got a mention! Again, it’s odd hearing references to smaller plot points in the series, but then again Doug and Duane Milford got a lot of attention in The Secret History of Twin Peaks. Turns out Doug was a flying saucer chaser, and with the amount of words he gets in the book, i’d be surprised if he’s not even passingly mentioned this season. 

. As well as not crying anymore, Andy has a new Rolex to go along with his new Michael Cera. I’m not sure where the story will go with the no-show guy who said he couldn’t talk to Andy, but I feel like its probably related to the drug story that seems to be running in the background. 

. Laura Dern, we love you. All of us. Every last one. Even with the most difficult to please of viewers, I doubt there’ll be a single complaint about her because she is the fucking best. It’s interesting that Diane’s so seemingly broken, leading us to wonder why - there were never really any clues about her personality, but you get the feeling that she was friendly, from the mere fact that Cooper talked to her via tapes so kindly and openly. So what happened? Bad Coop happened, is what. 

. I was pleasantly surprised at how swiftly the plot developed in this episode -  right after agreeing to meet Doppelcoop, they’re jetting off to see him. If this had been a few episodes earlier, it might’ve taken a while for them to get to it, but this episode knocked it out pretty efficiently. I didn’t think the show was too slow before, but it is a nice change of pace to get an episode with so much development.

. The windows on the jet disappear and reappear, right? I mean, I rewound that several times and they surely do. It’s not the light hitting them funny - they flash. I’m sure of it.

. Tammy hasn’t been given too much screentime yet, despite doing fairly important work - even though it seems Gordon has already sussed out the tasks she undertakes. He seems to be testing her abilities, which is why he assigns her to take over the research of the dossier, which makes up The Secret History of Twin Peaks. The scene where Gordon touches her fingers and says “I’m very, very happy to see you again, old friend” is funny, weird and ingenious. Gordon feels a lot like Cooper, but then, he always has. With his love of food, nature and coffee, and being filled with an affinity for everything, Gordon is an older Cooper and I hope he gets to see his old friend again. 

. Dern’s performance when she meets Doppelcooper is phenomenal and all registered in her fearful expression. It’s a gorgeously framed scene, with her head floating in the darkness of the room, looking at the man who is Not Her Friend. Her reference to that night is certainly ominous, but it did cross my mind that she was feeding him false information to see if he’d take it. Her reaction in the car park afterwards seems to suggest that it was true, though. Everyone seems to be in pain both from the absence of Cooper and from the presence of Doppelcooper. And it leads you to wonder again: what the fuck has Doppelcooper been up to these 25 years? And once again - both kudos and screw you to Kyle MacLachlan for being so utterly brilliant and frightening as Doppelcooper, especially in this prison scenes, where his voice seems to be slowed to a possessed and deep slur. This new season keeps offering up the chance to use such weird sentences: Kyle MacLachlan is terrifying and Matthew Lillard is scene stealing. 

. Of course the body was Garland Briggs. It had to be. Or did it? Who knows! It’s decades younger than it should be, and Briggs supposedly died in a fire a long time ago. We know he was taken by one of the lodges back in season 2, and has experienced the white lodge. We might wonder that if, after that, he gained some sort of...power? How else was his head floating in space those episodes back? And again with the bodiless heads! The nightmare bastard roaming the halls in this episode is the same ghoul whose head floated away in the first episode, and Josie Packard’s headless (or faceless, at least) body was, in an original script, supposed to be seen in a black lodge scene. People losing their heads seems to be a common theme again. Would it have been too on the nose, and i might add, awful, if Where’s Your Head At? had played in the morgue scene? It’s hard to be on the nose when you haven’t got a head! Wahey!

. This episode is very light on Cooper (i’m not going to call him DougieCooper because he’s not Dougie! He just wears his bad clothes sometimes!), but he came along almost as soon as I thought “Hey, where’s Coop?”. Naomi Watts kills it again with her impatient anger, and I love that she’s written as someone at her wit’s end (or should that be Watt’s end? Nope, it shouldn’t) but that still cares for her dumbass husband. And then we get maybe our clearest answer that Coop is still Coop: he kicks a bit of ass. It’s a very satisfying and well choreographed fight, and the Arm popping up to give fight advice was kinda cool and kinda funny. It seems that the lodge dwellers, or at least some of them, are helping Coop. Mike, The giant, and the Arm have all advised him, and seemingly given him some special insights. I think they want Cooper alive so he can, to paraphrase GOB Bluth, return Doppelcoop from whence he came. He was due back in, as that call in episode 1 told him, so maybe the lodge spirits are getting utterly fed up on waiting on his ass. They’re letting Coop live so he can go and sort it out. It has been 25 years after all. Stop hogging Bob, bro. 

. Some interesting stylistic choices in the news coverage scenes after the fight which felt like they were from another show, but I kinda dug it anyway. Will someone in Twin Peaks see Cooper in the news footage and put two and two together? I’m not in a massive rush for Cooper to wake up - but it will be spectacularly rewarding once he does.

. Is Josie haunting the hotel? Last we saw her, she was trapped in a doorknob, and Pete (we miss you Pete! Really!) was seeing her face above the fireplace (the nonchalance of that moment always really freaked me out), and now there is a sourceless humming sound throughout the hotel, which kind of sounds like the mystical ringing sound that we hear whenever The Giant rocks up. It really is happening again, isn’t it? Great to see more Ben, though his P sounds are less Plosive than they used to be, and he hasn’t eaten ANYTHING yet. But he’s still a lot of fun to watch, and i’m hoping - because i’m a softie who likes goodies - that his humanitarianism lasted. And i’m also beginning to think - with all the references to Audrey’s condition after the bank blast (bank blast sounds like shitty video game) - that Audrey will have been physically effected long term by what happened. I’m beginning to really look forward to seeing her, though I dread the idea that Doppelcoop is the father of her awful bastard son.

. It’s so uncannily Lynchian to drop in on someone like Beverly’s life, someone who we know next to nothing about, and give her a fairly substantial scene. It even feels like it might not go much further than that, and that dropping into her soap opera life (Twin Peaks’ soapiness is still there!) for this scene is just Lynch giving us a little look at domestic turmoil in Twin Peaks. But who knows. Who knows which characters are a one-scene deal, and which will fit into the larger narrative. Where is goddamn MATTHEW LILLARD???

. Jacques Renault’s identical brother(?) got some lines! And surprise surprise: he’s a scumbag! The sweeping scene was weirdly engrossing, especially with Green Onions playing in the background. And my god, how warm and cosy did the Double R look tonight?? With Sleepwalk by Santo & Johnny playing, and the lighting as warm and oak-tinted as ever, it’s maybe the one place in Twin Peaks you’d want to hang out. Especially with lovely, lovely Shelly and Norma working there. They’re such likeable and instantly welcoming people to see, and it’s hard not to wish they were your friends. And, I don’t like to focus too much on how the actors look - but Madchen Amick literally has not aged a day and it’s very confusing how she’s managed that. I guess there is something special in Norma’s family pie recipe. Also, i’ve heard people say the guy who pops his head in asks if anyone has seen “Bing”, but on re-listening, it’s 100% Billy and not Bing. There is someone named Bing in the credits - whether he’s any relative of Chandler’s is present is yet to be seen. It could be something, or it could be another version of that “It’s a boy? It’s a boy! It’s a boy!” bank security guy from Season 2. Just someone yelling some dumb shit.

. Some great music in this episode too, both new score and old. With the ominous shots of the foggy woods set to the opening notes of Laura Palmer’s theme playing (the scary bit, not the sad bit) I genuinely got chills. 

. Doppelcoop is on the loose and you can feel the story pushing forward now he’s out. I get the feeling we won’t see the Prison Warden again, and that everything they talked about has a backstory but one that is not necessarily important for us to learn about. Just know that Doppelcoop is loose, and where he goes now is an open question. To kill Cooper? How could you kill a man your exact double? It’d be so surreal. And would make for a weird, bad-wig-wearing stunt double fight scene. And the idea of unawake Cooper being hurt makes me even sadder than the idea of Lucid Cooper being hurt, somehow. He’s a sympathetic thing really, and he needs someone outside the black lodge to help him. He’s called for help though, and either Gordon or Hawk are on his trail, thankfully. 

SUMMARY

This episode, more than any other yet, felt like Twin Peaks of old. We spent more time in the town, and the atmospherics of the town felt more prevalent too. It does feel like we’re being eased back into the town which is great fun, though I love everything set outside too. A narrative cohesion is coming about as the story’s 2nd act clicks into place, and there’s some real momentum going in this hour. Whether or not that keeps going next week (I think it will), i’m happy to let the show do its thing because this episode has shown that patience does pay off. We will get there, and we should probably learn to enjoy the journey as much as the destination. Remember, Lynch and Frost have pretty big hard-ons for Mysteries, and that always has been, and always will be the core of the series. But goddamn it if it isn’t fun seeing that mystery chipped away at in tonight’s episode. 

    “Keep working the sunny side of the river, doc”

[midnightiscoming-kasabian]

New/Old interview with Ian (November 2016) _______________

Mike Dolbear DRUMS | Interview with Ian Matthews - Kasabian

“Rock compares to jazz like killing someone with a baseball bat vs. putting a pillow over their mouth”. Ian Matthews has both ways down like few others.

Coming from a jazz background he swapped the thin sticks for some proper wood and has been the power house behind British Indie Rock band Kasabian for the last 13 years.

2015 has also seen Ian seeking out new adventures joining a team surrounding master drum builder Keith Keough launching the brand new British Drum Company.

I caught up with Ian after his performance at the London Drum Show to chat about his musical upbringing, Kasabian and his new venture into the drum building business.

[x]

You started at the age of four after your babysitter taught you your first beats?

Yes, my babysitter (now passed away) was one of my dads mates and a long standing friend of the family. He would come to babysit me and bring me drum sticks when I was about two. I still remember ‘Mama - Dada - Mama - Dada’. His dad had an amazing red sparkle drum kit which I always loved. I think that’s where the seeds were sown.

My dad being a pianist wanted me to play the piano too but he realised that I wasn’t interested. So when I was four he tried to find a teacher who would teach somebody so young. There was a guy who lived just around the corner in Bristol called Mike Holmwood who was playing as a session player at the time for a band called The Brotherhood of Men. He had me come round the house, stick on some Cowboys and Indians or whatever was on the telly on a Saturday morning, gave me some milk and biscuits; take me up to the drum room for ten minutes to teach me some stuff; then back down for some more Cowboys and Indians; then back up for another ten minutes and so on... He did that for several years and taught me how to play brushes, jazz independence, how to read and all that. He got me to a point where when I was seven years old my dad turned around to me as he was packing his organ in the back of the car and went: ''Son, you’re coming with me''. The drummer for his social club gig was ill so I filled in. I went to do the gig with him and got £5. From that point I was hooked.

This guy Mike used to tell me about playing with confidence and feel. It was something I didn’t quite understand then but he sowed those seeds in my head. I’m making music for the sake of how I’m doing it as opposed to what I’m doing and I’ve got on as a drummer from the age of 19/20 as a drummer by going into from that direction.

Was it a conscious decision for you to make drumming your career or did it just happen?

I went through school still doing all these gigs with my dad and then joined a Bristol drum corps called The Troopers when I was ten. I don’t think we were a very good drum corp; we rehearsed twice a week and we also came last in the championships, but it taught me how to play with others and we used to race each other on rudiments trying to become the lead drummer.

I also did some school orchestras and in the band of the Avon and Somerset fire brigade learning to play with a wind band, playing military type stuff and lots of reading. I also did wedding gigs and jazz gigs, so I was always involved with music through school.

Even my drum teacher at the time, Eddy Clayton, used to dep me out for his gigs so I was playing in the pubs of Bristol when I was 13. Props to all these middle aged jazzers letting a 13 year old boy sit in and count them in.

I left school and had some crappy jobs which all weren’t really well paid and I just realised I could make nearly enough doing a couple of function gigs on the weekend. So I decided I would like to just sit at home and have to do nothing else but just play the drums and see if I can live of that. So I did.

You once made this beautiful comparison between rock and jazz being like “killing someone with a baseball bat vs. putting a pillow over their mouth”.

[laughs] Yes, this was kind of a half joke between me and a friend of mine who’s a jazz violinist. I’ve done jazz gigs with him and it’s so different than going on stage for a hundred thousand people driving a drum kit through the stage. That’s why we came up with that. To me, brewing on a ride cymbal at mid- to up- tempo, or even a slow brush thing, the inner me is trying to bring as much intensity to that musical moment of a whisper as I would at a yell.

You’re left-handed but you set up your drum kit right-handed?

I had this question a lot during my time as a teacher. You find people have left/right issues with their bodies. For me, I’m left-handed writing but my natural instinct is to kick a ball with my right foot, so my right foot was always gonna be my kick drum foot. Also, I was just put on a traditional drum set by my first teacher. I can’t even remember if he made me play like this or if I just naturally did it because I as a kid I watched all these drummers on our little black and white TV making their drums shake, guys with massive bangs of hair and huge sideburns. Maybe that’s where it came from. I’m not against playing lefty but it’s just the way it rolled. The right foot thing though was important for me.

Let’s talk about Kasabian.

I had a teacher who indicated to me that if I wanna get on the scene I needed to make sure to make friends and connect to as many engineers as possible. That’s where you meet the musicians who are doing stuff and where you get a call of people who need a drummer. These are the guys who are active, not the getting stoned in a bedsit dreaming about being a rock star.

I had red light fever and every time the recording button got pressed I would jam up. I tried getting as much training as possible, whether it was paid or not.

Mat, a friend of a friend, ran a studio called Big Bonk and I used to go there and record for free on his projects and in return he would throw me some work. Sometimes there was 50 or 100 quid in it. Kasabian from Leicester were coming down. They got some development money from their manager to spend on a drummer and Mat recommended me.

The day before the recording I fell down the stairs, sprained my right ankle badly and was inches from picking up the phone to cancel because I couldn’t walk. I still did it. I limped down to his basement, the boys looked at me and I went: ''I’m your drummer for the day''. That’s when I first met them. I did the session in pain you wouldn’t believe, they were blown away it seems and I did a couple of sessions with them after that.

They got signed the year after in 2002 but I couldn’t really get involved because I was doing enough stuff already. I was working with a guy signed to Virgin, another artist signed to Real World and was going to Paris a lot doing some African crossover stuff replacing Manu Katche in a band.

During that time the guys were sharing a farm up in Leicester working on their record. We lost contact a little through 2003 and later that year they started getting on the road playing the Dog & Duck here, the Dog & Duck there, driving up and down the motorways in a Mini Metro and an Austin Maestro.

In 2004 the manager called me in a panic saying they needed a drummer next week and they wanted me. It was Easter holidays so I went in and we tore it up for two weeks. After that the manager said: “Do you want to come and work with us? I can hire you and we have enough money to replace your teaching and feed your family. Come with us for 18 months.” I went for it and it was amazing. In fact they made me a band member in 2005 - so it’s kind of a gradient in membership. I wasn’t just parachuted into a famous band. I proved myself, we proved ourselves and together we made it all possible. I met them 15 years ago and it’s all been developing ever since.

There’s a bit of a time off for the band at the moment?

Yes, we last seriously toured in 2014 when we headlined Glastonbury. That was a big gig. That whole year was really dense.

Then 2015 we just did about 15 or 20 festivals mostly in eastern Europe, we also went to Brazil and did the Lollapalooza tour of Latin America taking in Chile, Peru, Colombia and Argentina. Then come the end of August we decided we’re on our sixth album, we need to give us some time off. We also wanted to give the public some time off and not just bring out another album and go back out on tour.

This coincided with Keith inviting me to become partner in the British Drum Company.

2016 was quiet apart from May where Leicester, Kasabians favourite team, won the Premiership in the most dramatic way ever and we played their victory parade in front of 150,000 people in Victoria Park. In my down time I did some jazz gigs, some funk gigs, a little bit of session work here and there, the drum company and my family. I’m not pursuing a project because by the time it gets going Kasabian will be back out.

Let’s talk about the British Drum Company for a bit.

So Keith is a guy I met a few years ago at the Scottish Drum Fare and we got on like a house on fire straight away, it’s like Bro-Love. We stayed in contact every since and every time I was in Manchester we met up for a drink, some food or he came to see a gig - we just became mates and we would trade on each other on our perspectives on drum maker vs. drum player. I always knew I wanted to work with but he was with Premier and I was with DW so we just didn’t have the situation.

It came to that he left Premier and Al Murray convinced him to keep on building drums, so the two of them started collecting partners. Stu Warmington does our marching devision, Alan Kitching is our product designer and there is me, which is flippin’ amazing. Keith literally just turned around to me at V-Fest, the last gig of our tour and went: “You’re up for this then mate?”. And I just went: Wow! Fuck yeah!

It must be something like a little boys dream to be involved in building your own kits. Is there any limit to what you can do or can you just try anything?

Mate, it’s incredible! Keith is the genius and what the rest of us do around Keith is to steer his genius in the right way. We’re like a band. We’re flying very quickly, we’ve only just gone a year and already everybody is going: oh yeah, British Drum Company. People are intrigued still  but we all came together because we’re all senior in what we do somehow. We’re not ‘having a go’ or just investing in a business and try go get people in to run it who are not that emotionally into it. We’re five partners who came together to create something magic that we’re proud of and I think it’s working.

I think it has taking people by a bit of a shock that a little Manchester workshop can create a drum kit which sounds f**king unreal.

I had that moment when I left DW, who I was very loyal to, and turned up to London Drum Show last year [the official launch of British Drum Company]. I got up in the lift, got to the booth, drums all over the floor, the boys all red-eyed because they’d been up all night to finish the last drum kit and you could still smell the solvent. Keith gave me a drum key, put me on this 24” kick drum kit and told me to tune it up. I took a deep breath: Right, this is the moment, let’s see what I’ve done. I hit the drum and I tell you now: the adrenaline that went through me when I realised I’d done the right thing was incredible. We set the whole thing up, I played it and my first words when I turned to Keith were: ''I’ll take this kit on a stadium tour tomorrow. I’ll never forget that moment''.

I’m catching you just after your masterclass in the Mike Dolbear room here at the London Drum Show. How does this compare to being on stage with a band?

Well, I’m coming here to a full room of people and I have Ash Soan, Karl Brazil, Mark Richardson, Cherisse Osei and Tina from Zildjian out there who all came to see me. Bloody hell! I’m nervous of those situations but it’s not the playing, it’s the talking. Am I actually gonna manage to entertain these people and give them something?

When it comes to playing music I’ve been doing it long enough. The intense acceleration of Kasabians career happened in the mid noughties - especially when Fire came out. Suddenly we started headlining all these festivals. I remember being at T in the Park and looking at this enormous stage, there was Channel 4, T4 cameras everywhere, celebrities hanging about and 60,000 people out the front and I shit myself! I had my moment of ‘Wow’ and had to talk myself down of it. I told myself: I’m only here because the boys want me here and the way I play. I can’t change the way I play that’s just the way it is. We are only here because the people out there want us there. We can’t change the way we play, that’s the way we do it. So if we only go on stage and play the way we play and not be scared of that, then happy days surely! We spent hours together in dressing rooms and tour buses talking about these issues, Tom just always went: ''You have nothing to prove''.

So I think those other drummers can think what they like, we’re all mates. I could have a bad one today and wouldn’t give a sh*t. I’m only human.

I know that I’ve made 100,000 people jump at the same time in a field so there is something about my humble basic beats that works. That’s me being arrogant of course but if we get into the psychology of it... and maybe there are some readers out there who might have to read that. It’s like sports psychology.

Finally, what’s next?

The company is keeping me busy pretty good. We’re doing most of it via social media so my phone is just going ‘bing’ all the bloody time.

In the meantime, the weather is changing for Kasabian, we’re gonna be brewing up. The new record is in completion I think and for all you Kasabian fan readers, there’s gonna be something special coming your way.

That’s the good thing though: if I do go out back on tour with Kasabian this year, I’ll still be helping to manage the company.

I feel very lucky at the moment.

Thanks a lot for your time Ian!

Interview -Tobias Miorin

Photos - Francesco DesMaele

www.mikedolbear.co.uk